deepundergroundpoetry.com

Sunday Morning

Your sweet nothings vibrate
like your many dispositions.

You set the table, pour the coffee,
I light the cigarette in your mouth

and lean over to say This must be a dream
before you stop me and respond

Yes, I already know its real.
Written by mbass33 (matthew bass)
Published
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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