I wake to the sound of rain on a river, your cold touch A finger running the length of my spine as if in the silence you. can hole to memory every crevice, every scar, every imperfection. Its barely morning,the air still, the stillness complete. The soft sound of your crying completes it. These are the "Lonely Hours", the hours you "think" And in your thinking you perceive I cannot hear you or that the tips of your morning fingers burn no emotion. Like tattoos of poetic ache, they scar. But you, Distant And I think, too. Comtemplation that wants no companion. Convinced if we chose,that we can heal in those hours. The soft rhythm of your crying spree. Light thur the windows shatter,breaking shards spill over into the emerald rivers. You smile.Without conversation. Words,foreign to this feeling,would fall like dying soldiers.To March without cause. I know. Dont speak, Lover. I know It's almost morning