We were waiting for an awareness
of want, bundles of ghosts folded
into half-light notions we’d rarely
use if we weren’t all of a sudden
tired all the time and focused
on sillier talents like juggling
or frying eggs. The ground is small
and how do we even know what
we want when we have to contort
so much to stand up to the other?

That little lyric moment when trees
ignite into birds shocks the morning
out of us and we look as if
we’ve never seen each other outside
the dark. Had we known we wanted
a peek sometimes, or is it
as obvious as the coffee’s steam?

-C.S. Henderson