mornings

sunday.

 

the croissant crumbles in my fingers

buttery flakes drift towards mismatched

china

and your lips are stained with

strawberry jam.

 

monday.

 

sleep clings to your eyes

like a shadow

and i watch you breathe, while

i trace your collarbone with

tired fingers.

 

tuesday.

 

we wake before the alarm

and count how many times the

neighbor’s dog barks

before she finally lets him in.

your soft laugh blends perfectly into

the early morning sun.

 

wednesday.

 

your fingers trace the curve

of my spine

the old window rattles

in the wind

and i press my cold toes against your leg.

 

thursday.

 

half asleep

i mumble how the faded, flowery wallpaper

looks pretty in the sun.

you tell me i look prettier.

 

friday.

 

i tickle your cheek with my eyelashes

and make my fingers do

ski jumps

off your nose

and wonder out loud why

the room smells like oranges

(you tell me you ate some

for a midnight snack.)

 

saturday.

 

linen sheets feel soft against

my sleepy toes

and i miss you until you come in

carrying a clinking tray of

milky coffee

and strawberries

and you smile

and crawl back in bed, and

sing softly in french

while we eat.

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