Morning After

Morning doesn’t knock—

it just breathes on us,

thin light slipping between the curtains

like it knows we won’t answer.

.

Your arm is a question mark around my waist,

asking nothing, insisting everything.

We’re still warm where we touched,

still learning the grammar of each other’s skin.

.

Sleep lingers, heavy and sweet,

but neither of us will surrender to it.

Not yet.

There’s too much to memorize—

the slope of your shoulder,

the way my name rests unspoken in your mouth,

the quiet ache of wanting without moving.

.

The sheets smell like us now.

Like last night’s promises we didn’t mean to make

but won’t take back.

Your breath is slow against my collarbone,

and I swear I could live here—

in this almost-waking,

this holy laziness,

this soft refusal to begin the day.

.

Time can wait.

The world can knock louder.

Right now, we’re cataloging fingerprints,

tracing the places we fit

as if our bodies are learning a secret

they’ll keep long after we leave this bed.