There’s something about a man 

when he’s not quite all of his sentient self.

Like the one she sees before first coffee,

his hair tousled. his chin stubbled.

Things are happening

but he’s mostly unaware.

The dog rubs against his ankle,

wants to be fed.

The local drug store texts him

that he’s due for a shingles shot.

This is man not dressed.

A man unshaven, un-showered.

A man still undecided, in his mind,

what is dream and what is memory.

There’s a smell to him.

There’s a paleness to his face,

yet a hint of burgeoning color.

He is not yet the polished man

who will stride out the door,

in suit, toting briefcase,

on his way to work.

This is a soft‑edged creature, 

made of nothing more than breath and warmth,

a self on the threshold,

moving slowly forward

yet still half‑aligned to the night.

And she loves him most like this.

The world has not yet claimed him,

He is only pulse and possibility,

a body remembering it is mortal…

and therefore miraculous.