A mug of coffee in our hands, coldness in our breaths

Sleep eluded me last night which enabled me to see the first break of dawn. I would have written this a while this morning as I watched the fading of the blue black sky, becoming fainter with each passing minute.

We used to do it, you and I, back then, years ago. We’d stand on the veranda of your place, a mug of coffee in our hands, coldness in our breaths. Sometimes we’d simply stay on the bed, on your crumpled sheets, and watch the night dissolves itself through your glass window. Other times we’d forget to do so.

It was cold.

Do you recall that time? You were resting your head on the creased pillow while my palm traced the patterns of your moles. I’d run the tip of my fingers, almost without weight, on your bare skin, and draw the constellations of unremembered stars. Cassiopeia, I’d say. Or Betelgeuse, the hand of the giant. Antlia. Cepheus. Pictor. Pavo. Musca.

Those moments were spectacular.

Sleep eluded me last night which enabled me to see the first break of dawn. Do you remember those times?

Orion the Hunter.

I guess not.

Because you’ve always been the blind and I’ve always been the poet. These wonders escaped your notice — you dull, specious creature with your dull, specious brain. I’ve magnified bliss, woven the narratives of the stars while your lethargic imaginations fail you.

I stepped out of the frame and collected unusual and remarkable details to sharpen your edgeless mind. The gods were with us, the gods were with me, and you missed them. The gods of olden times.

Do you recall those times? I guess not. Because you were never a poet and you’ve always been the blind. Cassiopeia, I’d say. Or Betelgeuse, the hand of the giant. Antlia. Cepheus. Pictor. Pavo. Musca.

Orion the Hunter.

Those moments were spectacular.

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