summer longing

Sometime between night and morning,
I steal minutes from my bedside,
turning them over carefully
in my hands.

As the sun engulfs this small, cramped haven,
as the beats stir to life, to warm the small places,
between my fingers and toes:
I crawl outside and to the roof,
I let the light tuck itself neatly
around the world,
and I miss you very elegantly.

Nothing is sweeter than cold white wine on a hot summer morning.
Nothing is finer than the rich and well-lit dawn.
The day yawns open to greet me,
as I scratch it behind the ears;

I measure love in the time it takes
for me to crumble.