On a Wednesday morning

I wake up to his hand on the small of my back.

Like a paperweight, holding me in place.


I shiver, and

He wraps himself around me.


Warm arms, and

cold knees.

My parted lips, and

His chest.




I can feel his breath.

Warm and thick

In the crook of my neck.


His beard.

Soft bristles

That tickle.


And our fingers,

leave gooseflesh,

Not prints.



Dawn stretches.

Slowly, lifting the dark shroud of night.


Like a magician.



And I want to lie here,



Until the sun supernovas

The stars fade away.

Published by

Vanessa Woznow

Writer, runner, ranter, reader. I write about all things.

14 thoughts on “On a Wednesday morning”

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