That Summer: The Mornings
The light came in careless thin gold slipping through blinds we never bothered to fix landing soft across your face like it knew you better than I did
I always woke up first
Not on purpose just pulled up from sleep by the quiet miracle of you still being there
Your hair was a mess of warm weather sun-bleached and stubborn spilling across the pillow like it had nowhere else to be
And neither did we
The fan hummed in lazy rhythm pushing around air that smelled like skin and cigarettes and whatever we called love back then
You'd shift sometimes half-awake finding me without looking a hand against my chest like checking if I was still real
I never moved
I thought if I stayed still enough I could trap it that moment that version of us that summer that felt like it forgot to end
Outside, the world kept going cars, people, time but in that room everything held its breath
We didn't talk about forever we didn't need to
It was in the way you'd open your eyes slowly like you weren't sure if you were still dreaming
and then smile just a little when you saw me
I live in a lot of places now but none of them feel like that bed that light that quiet that version of waking up where nothing had broken yet
