Cold mornings always make my nose run,
Strange how when bedding there is always warmth,
but the open windows steal the heat,
and blankets are armors to the cold.

It is sunlight that calls to my frigid toes,
slapping wooden patterns and linoleum tiles,
Sunlight illustrates my activities
and motions my warming limbs.

Remembered though, the moonlight never warmed,
but warming wasn't necessary, or wanted,
the day's heat retained in movement,
do the blankets barrier the memory of sunlight from
my body?

As night's swing circles these open windows,
do the blankets conspire to leech my heat
stealing it for their own designs?
The traitorous windows yawn as dawn appears.

It is the illusion of light that heats my skin,
the remembered burn of summer on shoulders
and the sweat of humidity that fills my body.
The blankets mourn my leaving,
opening their maw, unkept, for my return.

But i leave into the sunlight,
i leave in motion.