NESTED

This morning at four, or nearly four
I find myself untied, unlaced, unlashed;

I find I find myself unlatched, or nearly so.
Today the morning soars but I, unwinged,

do not wheel. No. Nor, to be fair, do I
show a singular or even single care

to be aloft. I have no preference for air;
prefer, instead, the confines of covers,

the soft of a lover’s thigh, the rounded
comfort of groundedness beside her,

the warmth of comforters and her smile,
while all else seeks to fly away.

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Posted for this week’s prompt, “Nest“, at ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION

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9 thoughts on “NESTED

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