Morning

Every movement above us, the ceiling
cracks in protest, we cuddle closer,
I smother giggles in the sticky sheets.

With morning bright behind the curtain,
I stand with just my skin to clothe
what the light seeks to outline.

Swiftly I slot into the sunlit bathroom,
fail to draw the blinds, but with veins
still flush with gin, I barely care.

Amy Austen

As a travel writer, reviewer and content writer, writing has taken her around the world, around the palate, and around the mind.

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