Morning Stories
by Margaret Cipriano

I am choked by morning. Breathless
because I see you sleeping
mouth open -
like you have been telling me stories
all night long.
Tales that sound like the low groan
of a distant train when our bones
are an ocean -
rising and falling
and I realize I am not lonely. Breathless
as you exhale
on my ear and I listen to the Morse code
of whispers and heartbeats.
A tiny translation that means:
Here. Now.
I am breathless
because there you are -
breathing.

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