The way your back sounds in the morning

Morning light seeps through dusty panes,

a chorus of creaks, a symphony of pains.

As I rise, my back whispers soft and low,

a song of the night, a tale of the slow.

Each crack a memory, each groan a sigh,

remnants of dreams that danced then died.

Rusty hinges and gentle snaps,

a symphony made from midnight’s lapse.

The world stretches wide as the sun breaks through,

and I hear my spine's quiet debut.

An orchestra of joints, familiar yet strange,

a reminder of life and its endless change.