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.
