Five a.m. Guitar strings unplucked.
Memories unmade. Words unwritten.
Nothing to do, for fear of being heard.
Last night’s tea runs frigidly past my lips.
Blankets tossed carelessly over my shoulders.
I sit on the window sill.
Brisk morning air stings my skin, still warm from slumber.
The birds recite sonnets to me, and I respond with secrets.
Figures of the past sing in the background, orchestrating the morning.
Bug bites, orange paint, tree sap.
Reliving yesterday until today is created.
Good, bad, boring, thrilling.
It always starts with cold tea.