Monday, May 31, 2010

it's morning again.

The digits on her five-dollar alarm clock flash like a New England lighthouse from her nightstand across the room. Twelve o’clock twelve o’clock twelve o’clock. There must’ve been a power outage in the night. The sun is just starting to show itself from behind the mountains and its light sneaks through the half-open blinds and drops slats of sunshine on her bare shoulder.

You've never seen this much of her skin in the light, but the morning points a gentle finger to a handful of moles dotting her collarbone. It looks like the skin of a leopard and holds your eyes hostage as you count one, two, three, five, nine, twelve. You trace your finger along the constellation of dark dots and wonder what animal the Babylonians would've seen in her smattering. Maybe an ibex.

She stirs and you reflexively close your eyes, wanting to hide your inability to look away from her. She sits up straight like a sail that's caught a breeze. She yawns. She touches your hand. She plants her feet on the floor and digs them into the carpet like she's scratching an itch. You hear her neck pivot to, presumably, let her eyes sink you in. Her hand paints yours with just enough heat to send goosebumps to parts of you that you didn't know existed.

She rises and walks across the hall to the bathroom, turning on the shower. The door shuts and you smile to yourself, knowing that you smell like clean sheets and a night well spent.

You wonder where you'll wake up tomorrow.

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