Aubade

Aubade

Jo Angela Edwins

You were last night a dream
sitting on the edge of this tousled bed,
your arm reaching backwards to touch
my cheek as I slept and did not sleep,
as happens in dreams. Moonlight glinted
off your silvered shoulders. My body’s
wild circuitry hummed. Perhaps you were afraid
you had wakened me. You stood, a bulky
shadow soft-footing from the room.

This morning I heard a screen door slap
somewhere. I started. You were nowhere
to be found in this house, this quiet house
in which your dream figure alone has stepped,
spoken, shuddered, stretched out in darkness
beside me.

Jo Angela Edwins

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