Morning Shift

Twin prongs from lamp plug
drearily dangle from reluctant sockets,
as do your tendrilous fingers
still twined in mine this morning,
harnessing potential energy
to be released
in caressing,
trailing sparks across my skin.
I wait,
to ignite your consciousness
to the powers you hold me captive to,
captive by.

The night’s covers
shies away from the suaveness
of your skin,
leaves you partially clothed,
bare to fantasy
and I to question:
“Why would you ever fancy me?”
The Pinnocchio of your childhood
still dreaming to be a boy,
your man.

Sunlight dances
feather-like choreography,
a tenderfoot upon your shoulder,
sliding bolder down collarbone
to tickle cheeks
with morning hues,
to land upon your lips
as you wake
with a bashful smile
and feline stretch;
and at this I knew,
my career in photography
would meet its superior,
and I?
My match.
For no film will ever develop,
mature adjectives to describe you,
there’ll never be enough pixels
to capture your beauty
in higher definition,
and no picture
will ever be as speechless
as I.

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