Warm light filters through the window, killing the perfect night. The gravity of bed still holds - as eyelids deny sight. And life's order would wrench me out from under the cover, but for the allure and the bliss of my love, and lover. Why must the sun be on the march? Why must we heed its place, and surrender that entwinement - chest pillow against face?
[Originally, an aubade was a song sung by one lover to another as they parted at dawn. (The word is linguistically related to the more well-known term, “serenade,” which was an evening courting song.) However, over time the meaning broadened to any song or poem about sunrise — be it a positive or negative take. There is no established form, but a lyric (euphonic) quality is useful for singing.]
He awakes — his arm pinned,
and thinks of how he sinned
by not slipping out right after the deed was done.
When the street lamp’s pale light
made shadows to hide from sight
he could have done his walk-of-shame sans the ruddy sun.
He’d wanted to hit the road.
To get back to his own abode,
but he fell asleep in about two minutes flat.
Besides it’s considered bad form
to come-n-go before the bed ‘s warm
decorum dictates you wait awhile before you scat.
So, he sings to her softly,
“My arm is paining awfully,
but it’ll get too awkward if I sound the alarm,
So, please, oh please, for goodness sake
Don’t bother to fully awake,
but I can’t very well chew off my right arm.”
And she sings, “Why are you still here?
You may have misread me, Dear,
You should’ve been long gone many hours ago.
“It’s not that it’s awkward…
Hell, yes, it’s so awkward
You don’t have to go home, but you do gotta go.”