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By Sam Yau

Before morning peeks around the curtain’s edge,

before the memory of last night’s dreams starts to fade,

before I am hijacked by mental chatter,

in the twilight between asleep and awake,

I lie still.

Find my breath.

Sense my rhythm.

Tune in to what I’m feeling

in my body,

without thinking,

without judging.

If the feeling has a color, I

let it seep across my entire field of vision,

soak every cell of mine in its hue.

Sometimes it is a golden lifting-up.

Other times, it is a gray heaviness in my chest,

if I stay long enough with it,

I reach its opposite.

If the feeling has a taste, I

swish it around in my mouth,

savor it with my electrified taste buds.

Some mornings are easier than others.

But I don’t try to cover it.

I leave no trace of my hangover—

I devour it,

lick my palate clean,

start fresh for a new day.

Painting by Olena Zavakevych


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