The Morning

Early in the morning

I wanted to send you something

for when you wake;

A song,

A lyric

of love.

But everything paled when prepared.

Everything failed so hard.

So I gathered what I could of my focus

and spun a something of truth,

crafted into this:

A pitiful poem;

a something,

nonetheless.

And everything I have at this hour is ours.

Every moment here curtseys to us.

When you get this I'll be sleeping;

I'll be without you

and nowhere near.

Some miles,

some months;

awhile.

But that really doesn't have much to do with much.

That really has no bearing on me.

There's nothing alive that can describe

the something I wanted to send you.

I insult it with words:

love,

friendship;

adoration.

But everything failed so hard

every word I have for you fails.

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I just moved across the country and left someone I love behind.

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