Bamboo. News. Fog.
It begins when I am ready.
Mornings can't push me.
Move me into-
Not the illumination of fog against the window,
Not the tapping of fingers against glowing screens of news…
and curl myself into warmth and ignore everything.
with your flying feet.
And selfish unshared breakfast.
I remain contentedly "asleep" until...
I am ready to...
Unless of course, like the morning before...
... I choose early as my time to rise.
Nothing is ever safe at that hour.
...warm tucked in toes.