You look beautiful in the morning. It always seems to happen that I’m awake just before, early enough to watch your limbs stir to life; to hear your vocal cords vibrate and groan, your knee and neck joints click; to smell the sleep still on your breath, escaping from a mouth like a fruit ripe enough to split; to see your lashes shutter open, to see your lens focus and shoot from the safety of a comforter shelter. You look beautiful in the morning, all the night’s façade streaked clean from your cheeks so that I can see your skin underneath. There are freckles only in the morning. I love the way your hair falls around your face unlacquered, wild and untamed. I love that I smell only you and not the things you wear.

You roll and stretch towards me. The sheets are unable to obscure the dip of your waist and the climb of your hips, wider than mine. Your browned shoulders are freckled too. There’s a scar on your right blade though I think you forget that it’s there. Skin pulled taut over your accented collar, like an emphasis in a language foreign, above a protruding bust that’s always warm. Two round breasts that know the calluses of my hands, that know the friction of my cheeks. Your form is more solid and more concrete than anything I have known. It is there and not all at once. I acknowledge you and I acknowledge what you are and where you are not.

We don’t say anything in the morning- just watch each other break into consciousness, break into the knowingness that our lives are fleeting and complex, that there is a parade of circumstance and we must march onward in step else risk tripping and scraping our knees, figuratively. I don’t care to sleep with you. I don’t care if you are there when I fall asleep or that you meet me in a dream-state Cairo. I care only that you open your eyes when I open mine.

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