We wake up.
Empty hands.
Empty Pockets.
Never an empty heart.
Remnants of a squeaky bed post.
You slide gently,
as if the whole marketplace would hear.
A grunt could mean a groan these days.
I pretend not to hear you.
Pretending not to smell you.
Stepping out, I followed.
A burts of light leaves the room.
We left the moon and the stars where they stood last night.
And though the sunrise is not mine,
I give it to you.. just the same.
Jay Protacio M.
(1978- )
