aubade (or morning in your room)

i see what you mean now
about the light from your east-facing windows,
the way the sun comes in
and lifts us from imperfect slumber
(imperfect because our feet
have grown too calloused
for walking in the sky)

how your limbs crackle with waking,
and my mouth is sticky
with sleep

these are all secrets weve tried not to tell each other
held on our tongues,
tripped over,
clutched in sweaty fingers

and all they mean is
we are unfinished,
unbearable in our own ways

but we are essentially dreamers
and these truths mean little to us
if anything at all.