Jasmine

8AM Sundays

Hazy eyes awaken to reverence, adoration;
heavy lids fight dear sleep's invitation.
Lips' corners turn up to sign consciousness,
leaving sleep to greet you, my only rest.

Fingertips glide along simple breathtaking figures-
smooth as ice against paintbrushes of figure skaters-
writing unspoken poetry with a personal hieroglyphic,
only pulses as ink, no language more specific.

With a head's turn, sunlight enters portals beneath brows,
and entire endless, magnetic universe, lighted to house
all the kindness the world can produce in lifetimes;
who knew two orbs could become a lifeline?

No words spoken: silence, nearly divine.
Only love remains in Fate's design.
Windows to the soul are the only beings
to exist in these kinds of Sunday mornings.