Mornings are harder than nights.
When eyelids flutter open and pale, reflected rays spill over shadows and ground. When foolish notions of the night before are set alight; a cautionary tale for days to come.
When only solace is found in fading warmth of sheets, worn by sleepless nights, salted tears and aching hearts.
When arms crave shoulder blades; hands crave fingers and fingers interlaced; and hearts crave all that can never be.