Blue Blanket Morning

The documentary played, a motel scene,

then that faint smell, coffee-stained and mean.

And suddenly, I was back there, in that bed,

the world outside, a buzz inside my head.

That grimy window, letting in a streak

of morning light, across your sun-worn cheek.

And the blue blanket, threadbare, rough and thin,

pressing down on all the heat within.

It held the night, that cheap and transient space,

every brush, every movement, every trace.

I felt the rough weave, tasted something sweet,

and knew right then, my life was made complete.