I wish I could write every morning. To be your dew.

I wish I was the steam off my tea and was the words you sniffed when you woke. The dust on your skin. The wind between your blinks. The negative valence of your laugh. I could be the photon between your window blinds, the ones that spy, and sigh, and apply.

I could weep off a cold glass, soak molecules into a leather ear flap, be the ink in a shitty tattoo, or the cash paid for a glorious one.

Or just a blink across a room between eyes. Screaming now and mighty. And soon. Such eyes. There's nothing stronger than hands reaching between the space of night. Warm and right and stupid with comfort.

To be your dew. To evaporate into your hungry air.

Sounds alright.