Saturday, June 12, 2010

All night

the afterparty spilled over
dancing through the bookshelves,
the footfalls of conversation seeped through a dawn
best ingested orange, on the balcony
sifted through a tangle of limbs.
Morning is not like an eggshell
even if the birdsongs try to convince you.
The sincerity of a sleepless night
is worth all the soreness and slowness
of a dawn that breaks in the company of lovers.

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