There’s a hand on my hip.  It traces down outer thigh and dances back.  The hazy, barely there morning filters in through a naked window, through an eyelid cracked open by the hand’s journey.  It grazes over crest of hip.  Skims small of back.  Traces a map around ribcage and up, plucking a nipple to … More Dawning (A 5 AM Vignette)