Sunday, 8:14 a.m.
Heather M. F. Lyke
 
One eye open, my nose a soft
triangular shadow on the morning
obscuring the slivering light 
that has welcomed itself inside
through the curtain cracks
not noticeable at night. 
 
Light lifting eyelids awake
one side at a time: the right
aware while the left half holds
hard to the softening dreams
slipping through waking fingers’ tics. 
Toes curl. A leg shifts. Lungs sigh. 
 
I give in.