3.25.22

A bird’s song rises from the morning alarm. The phone buzzes and vibrates against the wooden stairs, threatening to fill my drowsy mind with its noise. Outside, cars drone past on the highway before dawn has even crested the horizon, and the nightly chill breathes its last, cold touch through the open window. 

Wakefulness is unwelcomed, and it arrives with fluttering eyes and soft groans of protest. The warmth of the sheets keeps me lingering, but, more-so, the comforting heat of the woman pressed against my side. 

The alarm continues to twitter as the seconds slow. Her soft skin against my bare body, the smell of forestry on her hair, the way her arms wrap around me and, for a moment, protest me leaving the bed. I shift to sit up, growing annoyed with the phone’s constant reminder of work in a few hours. She leans into me, presses kisses to my cheek, my jaw. 

Drunkenly, I smile. I pause a moment to let her, just for a breath, fighting the temptation to lay back down and curl up against her chest. 

But the day beckons. Responsibilities and jobs and obligations rumble just below, and I must tend to them. 

I crawl out of the loft, her hands trailing along my ribs. I climb down the stairs, I silence the trilling phone. I lean against the steps, stretch in the chill, debate the option of adventuring back, sleeping against her for a few more minutes. 

For now, I resist. I prepare for the day, I shower, I eat, I sip my morning tea, I dress myself in a white button up and an ebony blazer. I gather my items, setting them aside by the door, ensuring I forget nothing. I check the clock. It is not yet seven. I work at eight

It takes only a few seconds for me to hurry upstairs. She has found herself buried beneath the blankets, and I crest the clothes and baggage between me and the mattress. I lower myself beside her carefully, not wishing to wake her if she somehow slept through my morning routine. I wrap an arm around her, squeeze her tenderly, kiss the top of her head. She hums as her fingers grasp my spine and she pulls herself against my chest.

In the hour I spend holding my girlfriend’s strong, soft body against mine, a single phrase dances through my mind. 

I love mornings with her.