6:45 in the morning

When I wake up in the morning, the first thing I see is you. Tossing and turning, trying to squeeze the most out of the last few minutes of sleep before Kina’s voice sings through your pillow again. Your hair falls over your shoulder and I am caught in my stare as your eyes flutter open. Eyelashes batting away fatigue, allowing the light to flood your eyes.

Your pupils shrink and I pretend to be asleep. My body twisted into a lower-case h, I sneak a peek and see you stretching. Stifling your yawns for my sake. Trying to rock the bed as little as possible, you roll out and slide into the slippers by your night table to begin your morning routine.

My eyes sneak another peek and I watch your back twist and crack before morphing into this elongated line, curved and straight all at once. My jaw almost falls each time I watch you.

But when you turn to check on me, lay your hand on my cheek, press your lips to my forehead, I am embarrassed into pretending I haven’t been awake this whole time. Embarrassed into pretending that after almost four years of this, I don’t still have to stop and catch my breath each time I look at you.

So I close my eyes and lay still until I hear the door click behind your and our dog’s pitter patter. And then I roll onto my back and lay a hand on my chest. Stare at the blades in the ceiling fan, count down from ten over and over again so that by the time you return, the rapid beating will subside and the erratic breathing will steady.

But we both know that won’t ever happen. And I thank whatever god is up there for that.