I don't want to forget, these lilac mornings I'll call them. When my eyes curl open all on their own around 0723. The hills are just reflecting the light, an ombre of tangerine red and faint periwinkle, stopped by the blue of a cloudless morning sky.
Old Italian houses don't heat very well. The bed, pseudo-damp with chill at night, is a nest when I wake up. Like a terracotta cocoon, a perfect dome around my body. If I lay still enough, maybe just I can walk to the window -- leave my sleeping shell behind. Would my breath still fog the glass? I'd draw a heart to send the sunrise.