morning greyscale

Wake up with my sweet son, and where is my old man? Ah, he has slept on the couch. So much missing wrapping up in him, I stand and stumble to the kitchen, stopping for why are you sleeping here? Of course, I would not move over and make room in the middle of the night.

Water on for coffee and here comes the morning routine. All on edge at not-even-seven-a-m, pushing the curtains open out the back and all that snow. Stopped in my groggy tracks by a pastel morning sky above the rooftops. Robin's egg blue festooned by clouds of bright pink, really bright pink, like an Easter egg.

Pinkest pink clouds and sky the brightest blue, yet there is the grey cloud of your leaving, though I have only just found you.