Sunday 8:23 AM

The kiss on the cheek, the forehead, the careful precision 

skimming your index finger past my outie belly button;

how you cared about my skin cells, the curiosity  

gave me a piece of innocence I'd never had.

The most patience was in the mornings. There was time

to be mapped over and reminded of ourselves.

I tugged on your chest hair when you dozed off

and watched the crows feet form around skin mounded eyes 

as you fake winced. It reminded me 

that one day they'll take permanent residence on your face. 

I'd hoped I'd always smell like detergent and moss, 

that my fickle vision wouldn't make that freckle on your arm turn blurry. 

You felt the paneled ridges on my fingernails,

accepted the stubble of my happy trail, 

my head felt heavy with your arm underneath it. 

I can't recall a time I'd radiated so much heat. 

We had done everything, everything I'd naively done before,

but you were the one I could feel quiet with. 

The Sunday morning I’d woken up too early for 

wasn’t met with overthinking. With you, 

I listened to traffic so long it became white noise.