You wake, and you can’t wait
to see her,
whatever dreamt dusted in sun dance radiance,
but you see her, her eyes
beneath her eyelids
overcome by the practiced choreography
of sleep, and there is crust at the corners
and maybe a little snot or saliva.
You had thought her hair a starburst
all those days ago,
but it is more
the brambles of untouched woods
struggling with the undergrowth
kicking at the roots in a vain effort
at stealing the light.
You thought her
once, but this is reality. Gabriel
opted for a didgeridoo to sign the end of time,
you think, and there are no more
dreams left to dream,
no more poetry to write,
no more silly odes,
her, Gabriel, and your shattered illusions.
And still, somehow, she is
more perfect in the exquisite mess
of morning beneath a chiding sun.
You imagine that is love…