Don’t talk to me at dawn. Caught up in whispers
of residual dreams beyond my control,
I’m not always ready for a new day, and
frequently have difficulty comprehending
where the night falls.

Morning is not the time for words
if the night has come before. Every breath 
a struggle. I wake. No heartbeat. No. No talk. 
Blinded by sight and sound I won’t hear 
the meaning, or the message.

Give voice to my days instead, where I won’t 
see your reflection, but will feel the wonder above 
the cacophony and confusion 
that terrorizes an otherwise 
monotonous day.

Evening’s long shadow laps up scraps 
of humanity. I pay less and less attention as 
the planets close in. Considering your many renditions, 
I await your arrival. Any night. What shade
will you be this night?

Then is the time, when distance fades, where we tell 
each other stories. Little else matters, and we ask 
the impossible. Inevitably darkness 
consumes me, until you become 
less significant.

Through nights, when I’m restless, when dawn 
is simply a concept, don’t waste your words on me. 
I will not hear them, promises or otherwise,
or find the light, or time, to 
see your lips move.

Dawn reveals serious wounds, time misspent 
and misplaced words. Where morning hints 
of the night before and I may not hear your call, 
don’t talk to me at dawn, 
or talk to me at all.

© 2015 j.g. lewis

April is Poetry Month