Morning

Sometimes, in the morning, when I have shaken off our warmest sleepiness and showered myself into morning, I tiptoe back into our room and watch you sleep. Your back is usually towards me, your head buried in hoards of pillows, your shoulder peeking out from under the blanket of bluish stars. I can make out the shallow, shadowy valley pushed up between your shoulder blades, just barely vanishing under the sheet. Your hair, the color of milk chocolate, is tousled; messed up on top and duck-tailed at your neck. I will often open the curtain so the almost-risen sun filters in and makes the fine hair on your bicep glow. I like to sit on the edge of the bed for a moment, and watch your shoulder and back rise and fall gently with each breath, the scoop of your neck expanding and contracting, your pale skin shivering occasionally with fields of goose bumps. I think about tracing the white welts of scars on your arms, but don’t want to wake you – yet.

Finally, the inevitable. I kiss you lightly on your poky cheek and trace the edge of your ear with my finger. “Wake up, baby.” You open your stunning ice blue eyes and smile sleepily, making me feel so guilty for waking you up.