Rolling over
The essential smell of your hair
embedded in my memory
as I staggered awake
clouded this dream's detail indescribably.
Frowning at the ceiling
a thin slice of sunlight
slipping through a hairline crack
along the roof beam edge
quickly disappears
proving the turning of the planet to greet the day
dissolving my night's vision:
some kind of clamshell
I struggle to pry open
trying at first delicately, softly with my fingertips
glimmers of progress
when applying Liquid Wrench
or oyster soup
there's a glimpse of a secret
peering out, winking at me
until the tip of my tongue
returns with the pearl
precious
accompanied by your giggle
your back to me
pulling the envelope
of my arms up and around you
as the pearl slips from my mouth
lands precariously
all slippery grace
perched in the hollow of your clavicle
while I whisper
"Favorite"
into your hair.
- for the Favorite, Sept. 17, 2015
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