Morning View

I like the way you look when you sleep,

though you never face me. 

My view 

of you 

is a walking line

A horizon, a descending ridge

of charcoal curls, a white wall, and lavender sheets.

And your ear peaks out behind the purple gables. 

Meek, 

and red, 

whispering the story of blood vessels, and body heat. 

The story of a beating heart.  

I can almost feel it, radiant,

lingering on the edge,

just out of touch.

 I dare not chase it.