The gentle epilogue of last night

I wake slowly, my mind first registering the start of a new day, and then my eyes, slowly peeling open, saying good morning to the messy bedroom. Despite my shades being drawn shut, the sunlight bleeds in, as if a demand for us to get out of bed. I shut my eyes, like I am a stubborn child turning my back to ignore my mother's calls. I turn over, shifting onto my left side, and I can’t help but open my eyes again to the warmth of the body next to me. Beauty in deep slumber, still, beauty in my bed, in my arms. 

I touch your mouth. I touch the edge of your lips with my finger, trailing it over your cheek and down the side of your neck like I’m marveling at a sculpture in the halls of MoMA, and in this moment, there is nothing more spectacular to me than this mouth and this cheek and this neck. My hands find their way to your shoulders, your back, your arms that are wrapped loosely around my waist, but they always make their way back to your face, your mouth, your lips. I trace my fingertips over your cheekbones, the shape of your lips, and I am drawing it as if sketching it into permanence onto a piece of paper. And all I have to do is close my eyes again to erase it, again, and all I have to do to make your mouth reappear is to just open my eyes, again, and there it is, and I can’t think of anything more beautiful to wake up to. 

Last night I kissed you before we fell asleep, and I dreamt of people and places, and though it was not a nightmare, it felt like such a waste of eight hours without you there. But waking up with you here, running my hands through your soft curls and fingers brushing the coarse stubble along your chin, my feet feel like they have been firmly placed on the ground, a deep breath in my lungs settling my racing heart. You are asleep, still as ever, and I can’t help but wonder what you are dreaming of, and I can’t help but selfishly wish that it is of me. I steal more of your warmth, desiring a closeness that is quite impossible, and my hands, with a mind of their own, begin to wander on your skin again. My fingertips dance along your back, and I trace letters and words there, writing poetry and reciting love songs in between your freckles in hopes that you receive the message I am futilely trying to send. 

You begin to stir, and I know you are starting to wake because it always starts in your legs, seeking mine out under the sheets and intertwining them like a promise I’m afraid to make. Your sleep slowly leaves you as you come to, your arms pulling me closer, your hands like my own, palms warm against my bare back, as if trying to solidify my presence, and I resist the urge to whisper to you. I’m here, good morning. If it were in my power, I would always be here. 

I am already looking at you when your eyes lazily open, eyebrows scrunching in adjustment to the light in the room, and as they fully open, I am met with a grassy field, a meadow filled with daffodils and dandelions on the most lush spring afternoon. And the truth is, I’ve never been terribly fond of the color green until you, until every time you look at me, I am reminded of the color of Earth, of living things, of life. They say the grass is always greener on the other side, but I don’t believe these people have had the luxury of looking into your eyes first thing in the morning, and I’m a damned hypocrite because I never want them to. You kiss me, languidly, and as you pull away, you blink a couple of times, unhurriedly, and I am reminded of the way cats blink slow to say “I love you”, and though the thought has run through my mind countless times, I have never once let it escape past my lips. 

I can’t help but close my eyes again as you continue staring at me, your eyes my kryptonite, like they are seeking something in me, probing around every corner and crevice of my brain, and I foolishly think that if I close my eyes, you won’t be able to decipher what I’m thinking, even though everything I want to say is written in my smile. Your fingers, my fingers, are the same, tracing my cheek, tucking a loose strand behind my ear, grazing down my neck in the same way staring at the sun feels on a cold winter day. Your hands brush through my hair, and your fingers undo the knots at the nape of my neck, undo the barbed wire around my heart, and undo the hardness protecting the softness of my belly. Little by little, I am shedding my armor, and now even my body lets the light through, my spine soft like a wax candle slowly burning. 

My back against the windows, facing you, the heat of the sun on my shoulder blades, and I think that even if I were a flower, I would turn away from the sun and grow towards you. With courage, I open my eyes once more, and as I am met with sea foam, I can almost smell the salt of the ocean waft into our embrace, and suddenly I am drowning because that is the only explanation as to why my hands are holding you so tight, like you are an anchor, like you are both my downfall and my savior. 

This feeling is overwhelming, as drowning would be, but despite it all, I push away the fear just for a few more seconds with you this morning. Be aware, you take with you all my hope. Close your eyes once more so I can take one final breath.