As black gives way to blue, amber ichor 

Pours through the slits of my curtains —

Stinging my unopened eyes, with a dreadful optimism.

Like a sunny faucet being slowly turned on 

And left running — before overflowing, and flooding 

My room with a strange, fuzzy whiteness.

It arrives, in one long synapse between the earth 

And the sun, before coming to rest on my eyelids;

The way a butterfly comes to rest on a flower.

Quietly nudging my lifeless body, until 

I’m born again — clinging to the mylar shreds 

Of dreams that lay scattered around my pillow.

Just waiting to be cleaned up and stuffed back inside

My little bag of sleep — I’m recycled and reused. 

Drifting in and out of this world so carelessly, 

I forget to crawl out from my cotton womb 

To silence the birds that keep chirping;

Mocking me with their morning song.