Awakening, you are in the tall shadows of morning,
in the smell of cigarettes that still lingers in my clothing
like early morning dreams that have not yet been erased by sunlight,
and knowing this the unnamed birds repeat their songs of warning to me.

Perhaps I am foolish, or worse, as some have said,
for I listen too earnestly to admonishments
from those who learn regret with age and fear,
and my lips are still drunk with the softness of your skin.

But I still recall how you set the birds to flight,
with your subtle white laughter,
their silhouettes revealed against the sky,
each concealed in the anonymity of swirling, amorphous clouds.

I had forgotten, foolishly, in dreams that it was so.