A smudge of lipstick on my pillow leaves
her portrait moist upon the cotton spread
and fresh within the sheets her sweat still
like pastels deep within a canvas thread.
The fingertips of dawn begin to sketch
in shadows where she slept upon the bed
and in my mind I see her as an etch
of beauty that remains in words unsaid.
The hues of rising dawn begin to frame
a memory of her within the room
and how I long to hear her say my name
in words that swirl as oils of flowers bloom.
My lady, with the sun you reappear,
here in the art of dawn, you persevere.