Good Morning

Your hair was in my mouth and the sun had been slipping quietly into the bedroom for the last hour or so, but you were still asleep. I pulled the strand off my tongue, kissed your shoulder, pulled you against me. Small and frail. Unconscious and breathing soft against the pillow. The light through the window crept steadily to you and if I didn't wake you it would warm first your nose, then lips, cheeks and soon slide under your eyelids and you'd moan and escape toward me, but you'd already be awake.

I pulled the blanket off of me and careful not to crush your glasses on the floor got out of bed, picking my phone up off the nightstand before leaving you and the room to the silence.

The phone swore it was only a little after seven but I had my doubts. I had my clouds. The coffee was finished and I poured two cups. Not for you. You said you don't drink coffee and my memory is often horrible but I wanted to remember all of you and I sometimes found myself in my head, repeating things you had said or done or insinuated, but even then I often forgot. Two cups for me. Set one on the counter, took the other with me. Let them cool. 

Clouds begin to drift into tomorrow morning and I walked into the living room and spent too long putting a record on. I decide Philip Glass and by then the coffee has cooled. I wondered if you were awake, but if you weren't I wanted to let you sleep until I couldn't. Sat back on the couch, sipped at the coffee, listened to the piano dance. And sway. And repeat. Dance, sway, repeat. 

I could go back to sleep, I thought.

I could go back to bed.

I thought of your shoulder. Your neck. Your shape and smell and thought I could go back to bed.

I finished the first coffee, got up for the second, and wandered the house as I drank it, faster than the first, picking up the living room and the bathroom and the kitchen a little before you would wake. I decided I would put the dishes off again and I swore I'd do them after work. Finished the second cup and we had showered only a few hours before but insecurity and a need impress told me to shower again. I did and after stood in front of the mirror.

You had told me I had body dysmorphia. I thought that it was good that I did if I did. Thin and long hair hanging over my shoulders. Bags under my eyes. A beard born only of apathy, a gut of booze and sloth and french toast. I pushed the hair off to one side and I wrapped a towel around me and it was time for you to get up.

I opened the bedroom calm and slow. Not to crash in, as I do. 

The sun must have found you. You were facing me and your eyes only were opened as slits. The corners of your mouth pushed gently upward.

"Good morning, you," I said.