The Morning Before

He woke up every day at 5:55—
rising with and for the ancestors.
Truthfully, his mind only gave him peace
between the hours of 1 and 4am;
during the darkest part of night.
when the streets were silent,
and nature’s metronome pulsed in the wind.
there could be no rest for the wicked.
his mouth opened first,
conjuring a yawn from the belly
of the beast.
his eyes followed: deep brown ponds,
sclera tinted yellow,
with thin red veins etch-n-sketched along the orbs.
He cried every morning.
it was always quiet and contained.
A silent cry;
where the tears pour from both eyes,
Graceful but persistent--
like Yosemite falls.
He never claimed the tears as his own.
they belonged to
his brother: who cried only on Sundays, under the guise of religion. his tears tasted of holy water and communion wine.
his father: who wasn’t allowed to cry until his 21st birthday.
and his grandfather: who cried only in the lap of his wife.
and his great-grandfather: who cried every evening—loud & hard. praying God could hear him. and save him.
Occasionally, he gave himself permission to weep for the woman who laid beside him.
A woman who spends her hours thinking of new ways to display love;
she empties her heart out, sifting through baggage & blood,
to make room for his burdens.
A woman who wrote his worries down on lined paper,
then burned them under a full moon.
A woman who acted a shield from the world--taking blows and bullets
& laughing at the bruises.
She wore a brave face; made it her mission to protect the endangered.

Yet for her—she spent sleepless nights consoling her inner child, who longed to be seen, to be held, to matter. Every day, she promised it would be her turn soon.
Soon never comes. It never even considered coming.
What did arrive is 5:55am, when spirit jolts her lover awake and reminds him of the darkness living beneath his skin.
As the tears of dawn begin to emerge, she holds him tight, her breasts pressing against his shoulder blades, feeling the weight of his world crashing into her.
He escapes her grip after his emotional release, feeling light—feeling like he has absorbed enough love to make it through the day.
Leaving his lover drained
and drowning and desperate—learning that some men have only been taught to t a k e.