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How still you stand against the morning's move
into the bed I'd wanted you to rest
at least another hour against me pressed.
Or is that just a shadow, dreaming you've
left waking to its appetite to prove
the waste last night has made of my request
to break our kisses open? Look—I've dressed
to join your ritual sacrifice, my love.
No cereal, no eggs, no orange juice,
no pancakes, bacon, hash browns, toast nor grits.
Just coffee, black, brewed strong how you prefer
to have it done. Your breakfast is a truce
you make to keep what little peace best fits
what we might be with how we never were.
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pearls 
Funny. This ain’t what I meant by urging you to uncloak this one. I’m thinking Adrien might want it for his collection of aubades. I understand your preference for privacy, and I know you share these and others you write with him behind the screen. But please, consider letting the full text of this piece out in the open. I’ll give you equal call on one of my own if you do.
Aubade, yes, one sliding on that edge of wanting to hit the snooze one more time. And more. Of all the aubades I have read, to my memory only that most memorable one – the last morning shared by Romeo and Juliet – is given to us in full context, showing us before the night and into the night, then waking to that aubade, then inevitably on to that fated day. All other aubades I’ve read, that full context has to be understood or heard in the echoes of the aubade’s moment. Here, including an aubade in the context of a linked sonnet cycle that follows this theme through to here, then has been following through after, brings out a rare light to the morning of this poem. I look forward to your completion of the full cycle you’re writing. Please consider uncloaking the entire cycle when you’re finished, if only for the sake of showing the full setting of this moment.
Thank you. I don’t need to tell you how much she would have appreciated what you’re doing through this series of poems, because she knew you would do what you told her you would, and she showed you how much that meant to her.
Your word is always good.
Though nothing can bring back the first you lost,
your third gives living proof your word breathes true.
As much those mirrors as when you first crossed
my path, your eyes see clear then see it through.
Again, I urge you to show all that this one’s of.
It’s nothing short of your poetry in love.
No.
I have never wanted publication or open distribution of my poetry. Like a kiss shared outside on the street, mostly I’ve not minded if strangers see nor cared what they think, but I don’t perform for them, and the kiss remains an intimate touch between me and the one I kiss.
You who know what I do and accept me for who I am, you have already shared this poem’s full embrace. And you’ll know where to find the coming ones this one saw the morning for.
So then, no. I see no reason to make a habit of this one wee exception.
[Edit – No. And no again. And no there too. She preaches about accepting others, but is first and foremost in her poison in not accepting who I am and the devotion I have to her. She prattles on about not being accepted by you, but is steadfast in crudely rejecting you and the life you had with her to paint instead the false needs of a self-anointed liar as a sort of acceptance. I’m really not interested in having a hypocrite preach to me about acceptance. Please don’t ask again. Just because I still love the person she is doesn’t mean I am going to let my love blackmail me into submitting to the hatred she shows to the person I am. Besides, you know both the writing and the private publication of this sonnet cycle had nothing to do with her, as she herself has wished…. Leave it alone, please.]