An Aubade and Serenade

The muted hours I spend
waiting for dawn and twilight
are lonesome, cold, tired,
and fretful in the dark
and light in-between.
This depleted heart finds succor
when the Sun caresses the horizon;
I wait for the next touch,
the next crossing of curves,
from the celestial center
to the far edge of this rock
with an ache that is as opaque
as the love that does not linger.