When the Morning Forgets to Wake

In the hush before dawn, I find you.

Your breath moves slow, steady, and sure,

like a tide that has found its rhythm.

The window holds the pale blue of almost-light,

and I watch it slip across your shoulder,

learning the shape of you inch by inch.

Your hair rests against the pillow,

a quiet map of where dreams have been.

The air between us feels alive,

as if it remembers everything we have said,

every silence we have kept.

Even the walls seem to lean in,

listening to the quiet that carries your name.

You stir once, half-waking,

and the faintest smile appears, unbidden.

I want to ask what world you came from,

what vision held you so softly,

but I do not speak.

Some things are better left untouched,

like the first breath after rain.

The clock hums somewhere behind me,

marking seconds I no longer want.

Time feels clumsy beside you,

too sharp, too certain.

I wish it would learn patience,

learn to pause like your heartbeat does

when you sink deeper into sleep.

Your hand, open on the sheet,

waits without knowing it waits.

I trace the air above your fingers,

close enough to feel warmth

but not enough to wake you.

That small space,

that fraction of distance,

feels like the edge of everything.

Love is quiet like this,

not grand or loud,

not a storm or a flame.

It is the weight of stillness,

the comfort of knowing

someone is here,

and will be here again.

Outside, the world begins to wake.

A bird calls once, then again,

hesitant, as if asking permission.

The sky turns from blue to silver,

and I can see the faint line

where night gives itself away.

But in this room,

morning waits its turn.

I think of how often

we rush through beauty,

mistake movement for meaning.

Here, there is no need.

Everything worth knowing

is already in this quiet.

The slow rise of your chest.

The warmth beneath the blanket.

The promise of another hour

that belongs to no one else.

I remember the first time

you fell asleep beside me.

You had said nothing,

but your silence spoke in whole sentences.

It said trust.

It said stay.

It said everything I had been afraid to ask.

Now, I listen for it again,

that wordless language,

spoken between breaths.

You shift closer,

seeking something even sleep can’t hide.

My hand finds yours,

and your fingers close around mine,

still dreaming, still unaware,

but sure.

The light grows thicker now,

pressing gently through the curtain.

Dust moves in it like faint stars,

each one carrying the weight

of some forgotten moment.

The scent of coffee from the kitchen

drifts in, soft and real.

The world, impatient as ever,

calls us back to motion.

But I stay.

For one more breath,

one more look.

I want to memorize this version of us,

the one that belongs only to silence.

Before words,

before worry,

before the day begins its asking.

Love does not need to be declared here.

It already lives in the smallest things,

in the curve of your shoulder,

the crease beside your mouth,

the warmth that lingers

long after the night has gone.

And when you finally open your eyes,

still dazed by sleep,

I know you will smile.

Not because of what I say,

but because of what we already know.

The morning can wake now.

It can flood the room,

fill it with sound and motion.

But for a moment longer,

while the light touches your skin

and time holds its breath,

we stay inside this quiet truth.

You are here.

I am here.

And nothing asks for more.