first day of my life
its snowing again outside. the fifth time this week, and it isn't even New Year's yet. ghostly petals of frost float outside the balcony window, softly illuminated by your yellow night light. looks like global warming is coming on in full force.
your snores are especially loud this morning. the bright cover of your novel peeks out from under the blankets, your glasses are skewed at a funny angle on your face. I sighed. looks like someone fell asleep reading yet again. you didn't even bother to take off your blue cardigan.
carefully, I manage to take off those large glasses of yours. your lips tremble and you mumble something incoherent. your hair, all frizzy from your tossing and turning, tickles my arm, breath light and constant against my chest.
“you're crushing your book under your own weight, idiot,” I mutter as I pull out the novel, bent pages and all, and throw it on the bedside table.
I shiver in spite of the layers of blankets that you had insistently piled on our bed. maybe not taking off your cardigan was a good call. you always were unexpectedly lucky with your sloppy fuck ups. I found the corners of my lips curving up in spite of myself, and I brush a stray strand of hair off your still sleepy face.
you once told me you hated mornings, and I agreed. but now I'm having second thoughts. the faint morning sun filters through our floral patterned curtains, slowly melting the dawn snowflakes plastered against the glass. your hand feels warm as I carefully slip mine into them. you always were a deep sleeper, but today your eyes half-opened, and your lips quivered at the early morning chill.
“good morning,” I smile, and gently squeezed yours, feeling your warmth seep through me.
I'm glad that I didn't die before I met you.