KS Culbreth

The Wilting of a Morning Song

In the morning was a lilt on the
local. Winter yet, through the
smoke-aged windows, the car
was warmed by the sun.
You wrote a letter or other
scribblings in a note book
bound with a floral print
cloth, Victorian. You closed
the note book. Gradually,
as most of the non-readers, your
head melted back against the seat,
and in this calm the morning
lilted its song to those who would
listen. I yielded and closed my own
book into my lap, felt the sun
against my neck, familiar hands,
welcome home embrace.
Sleep overcame you. I waited
for angelic sweetness, perfect
perfumes, caressing light. You were
nearly angelic, blonde strands as
bright as gold in the sun, eyes without
strain, flame-smooth skin. You wore a
paisley vest with a satin back, corduroys,
loose white blouse, leather wing-tipped
shoes designed like a man’s but of
course, narrow, petite. One leg was bent
across the seat. I couldn’t help but peak
as you slept, saw the floral-weave of your
thin socks fallen around your ankles, and
yes, up the vista of your corduroy hem,
the downy-soft whiteness of your calf.
But it was not an angel’s sleep, light,
laughing, clean, dull. You began to sleep
heavily, breathing deeply. Your lips
parted from their natural half smile, and
your tender nostrils flared slightly with each
breath. Your head slid toward the window
dragging your hair, which stuck to the
seat. I watched you thus for several minutes.
Until a switch in the tracks shocked the car and
rocked your head against the window. It woke you
quickly. And as though you were not sleeping
at all, but pretending and watching me with your
eyes closed, to see how I would react to your
true sleep, when you awoke your eyes were clear
and alert and staring straight through me as I stared
at you. I looked away quickly, feigning
embarrassment. You sat upright wiping
your lips, pinching the corners of your mouth
between thumb and forefinger, then lay your
head back down into that false angel sleep for
the last ten minutes of our final leg. The morning
song faded when the train shook. Faded graciously,
as I saw that the real is perfect, as angelic
as we should seek, that the true never
disappoints. When we left the train, I knew
what your kiss would taste of, no cloying
sweetness, but the true paste of morning’s
awakening. Enduring and forever and
more real than angels. In separate cabs,
the city’s mad rush about us, the taste of
your kiss was so real on my lips I was too
afraid to reach across to your cab to give
you the note I held folded in my hand, the
note I had scribbled at Penn Station
as we walked to the street exit.
Some ridiculous note about our paths
perhaps crossing again.