awake.

my first thought.
my second.
and then.

hands to the mirror.
is it tired eyes
that softens the blow?

i am astounded
by the hope
i can muster.

in those
first, foggy
moments.

why is it,
that it appears
softer, less raw, less depleted.

five minutes later
and the illusion
is shattered.

familiar reality;
the moment of perfection
a mere mirage.

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