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MORNINGS


Mornings are for poems and left over cigarettes.

Mornings are for tender grasps and hard grips.

Mornings are for let-go’s, missed calls and rightfully-so’s.

Mornings are for lovers, even in separate beds.

Mornings are for cartoons and masturbating as a kid with the remote control.

Mornings are for confessions and we have plenty of those.

Mornings are attempts to unload what once mattered, what once was true.

Mornings are for tickles and nipples and fruit juice.

Mornings are for remembering the former and thus mornings are only for the humble.

Mornings are for fried eggs and omelets and your mother asking which one would you rather.

Mornings are for Chet Baker, on a speaker.

Mornings are for questions, even for those you have to wait for sunset to get the answer.

Mornings are for newspapers and domestic decisions.

Mornings, when cold, are for layers layers and layers.

Mornings, when in love, are for nothing but undressing.

Mornings are for opening your eyes to the same same riddles.

Mornings are for coffee and that one’s obvious.

Mornings are for big pregnant women to go to the hospital.

Mornings are for melancholia, sorrow, but never for a funeral.

Mornings are for ears and not eyes, mornings are for feet until your hands wake up.

Mornings are for destructions although rarely, so the next mornings have space for rewiring and more coffee.

Mornings are for obsessions, old and new.

Mornings are for notebooks, those that are half empty, and mornings are for reconsidering what you have written in them

the previous evening.

Mornings are for writers and mornings are for sculptors.

Mornings are for reflections but not those in mirrors.

Mornings are for changing everything with knowing one morning for that is not enough.

Mornings are for promises, for hoping they will last until next dawn.

Mornings are for screaming, though carefully, without having the others wake up.

Mornings are not for the crowds, they are for the lonely and that’s all of us.

Mornings are for secrecy. Mornings are for whispering.

Mornings are for dreams and trying to keep the faces you’ve seen in your sleep, please, don’t leave me.

Mornings are for negotiating.

Mornings are for a blurred clarity depending on how you take it.

Mornings are for escaping, embracing, and mornings are for passing new laws discreetly,

at least in Turkey.

Mornings are for a dog and I guess not for a baby.

Mornings are for words, though not all, yet still for many.

Mornings are for time, but not for its counters.

And when there is nothing left to say, mornings are not for lovers.

Though only on Sundays, mornings are also for fathers.

Mornings are for haters and for heroes, and though you need many mornings to see that they are the same people.   

Mornings are for crying, for praying, and mornings are for repeatedly crying the same prayer.

Mornings are for pages and papers and pens,

Mornings are for books, for dictionaries, and for unsent letters, and again,

Mornings are for love and that’s not what makes them special.

And in december in your coffee, mornings are for a little bit of rum.

Mornings must come and go,

(sun glow, some flow, no grey, holl-

ow, high-

hopes)

Mornings are for remembering why you wake up.



12.21 - 01.22