some mornings

come to us wearing a second skin of sweat and tears.

other mornings arrive fully versed in the zen of uplift.

some mornings address us through a twilight zone microphone.

others allure us with their long, sleek horizon lines resembling the clavicles of modigliani models.

some mornings got slumbirds unwowing us with melodies of gutter-uttered vowels.

other mornings mix us a xanadu-infused cocktail whose insobriety offers us quiet joy.

some sound like the guitar of hard relationships where far too many strings are attached and the music ain’t for nobody’s making.

other mornings come bearing a medicine cabinet heart, offering us whatever we need to heal.

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