Oxford-An Aubade

Oxford-An Aubade

The students rushed away to crunch numbers
half drunk and dewy eyed.
Blinded already by the brilliance of the sun
not yet risen.

Clicking of high heels on stone walkways
smelling of musk
and I can feel your smoky skin
against my shoulder.

The clock sounds four in the morning.
Classes in two hours.
You press a kiss to my forehead
and the spot burns.

Black eyes and midnight hair,
skin smooth with Turkish oils.
We laugh a bit and separate
slowly.

Each watching as the campus fills with
the foggy noise of morning.