the pull down at the corner of a bed sheet
hidden behind baby blue and a glass reflection
of your morning beard to the sound of
blinds opening overtly bright in your good eye.
last night turned to unfairly complicated
her moves across your childhood carpet
and the distinct smell of picture books
turned her into a muse of pleasurable guilt.
the trim of an unpainted heaven reveals her
as a wicked truth amongst comforting lies
and a break from exposure to ritual brushings
leaving way for a finer comb to clean with.
if only every poem came as naturally as this -katy