Poem-A-Day: Day 263

What I Look Like In the Morning

Her skin looked tan
next to the white of her panties.
I sat unnoticed while she slept
and looked upon her curvature
sunken in an old mattress.
She had the covers down near her feet
because it was a terribly hot night,
and her bare back faced me.
It was a painted mountain
rising from the desert of my yellow sheets.
The mountain heaved every now and again,
but always settled,
always with a small sigh;
a gasp of warm, sweaty air.
The supple rump wrapped in cotton
appeared as an out-of-place avalanche;
a wave of snow crashing down
somewhere in the middle of the mountain,
before giving way to a slow descending slant.
I’ve never seen a mountain so smooth,
so slowly moving without disturbing anything.
And while I sat and watched the slow movements
of time passing,
of nature being created
and recreated before my eyes,
I daydreamed about how I would remember
this one moment wrapped in nothing more
than a pair of cheap cotton underwear
and a glimpse of blankets resting at the feet.
I imagine it will be quiet.
And when the mountain stirs to waking
I’ll be treated with the sweet glimpse of breasts,
and a smile that mirrors tired eyes barely open.
I will remember it over a cup of coffee
slowly sipped,
while she remembers what I look like
in the morning.