I always wake up before he does. Always, and I wish I could kiss his perfect sleeping body up and down and all over without disturbing him. But I can’t, so I lie patiently as the sun rises, watching as he glows in his sleep. His eyelids flutter as he dreams and he shudders with some mad thought that will be gone when his day begins. I wonder what it was.
Quietly I slip out from under his arms and pull some clothes on, the thin fabric barriers that separate our bodies during the day. I barely brush his cheekbone with the side of my hand with as much tenderness as I can muster, then leave the room.
Quietly I slip out from under his arms and pull some clothes on, the thin fabric barriers that separate our bodies during the day. I barely brush his cheekbone with the side of my hand with as much tenderness as I can muster, then leave the room.
I eat my breakfast alone. I like the routine of it; opening the little portion-controlled sachet of oats, measuring the milk, heating it up, mixing, then heating again. Pour coffee. Strong, milky. Add cinnamon to porridge, burn tongue, read yesterday’s newspaper. I like knowing how much food I have put in my body at that time, and I like the push into consciousness that the strong coffee gives me. I’m suddenly capable of beginning the day.
Next is his breakfast. Everything fried, everything buttery, everything delicious. I love to cook food for him that I would never eat; eggs over easy, greasy bacon, loads of Turkish bread and fried tomatoes and mushrooms and baked beans, all stacked majestically and precariously onto one plate. My lover is impossibly thin, tall, and humble. He eats everything I cook for him, no matter what it is or if it’s burnt or cold or in silly excess. I love him madly when he eats the mountainous breakfasts I have brought to him; he does it because I am so afraid to. He lets me pick fussily at single beans off of the side of his plate, and kisses me with his bacon mouth when he’s finished.
A well-loved poem of mine is this one by Shane Koyczan. No one, to my knowledge, has expressed morning sentiment better.
I've been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day
But if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.
Next is his breakfast. Everything fried, everything buttery, everything delicious. I love to cook food for him that I would never eat; eggs over easy, greasy bacon, loads of Turkish bread and fried tomatoes and mushrooms and baked beans, all stacked majestically and precariously onto one plate. My lover is impossibly thin, tall, and humble. He eats everything I cook for him, no matter what it is or if it’s burnt or cold or in silly excess. I love him madly when he eats the mountainous breakfasts I have brought to him; he does it because I am so afraid to. He lets me pick fussily at single beans off of the side of his plate, and kisses me with his bacon mouth when he’s finished.
A well-loved poem of mine is this one by Shane Koyczan. No one, to my knowledge, has expressed morning sentiment better.
I've been told
that people in the army
do more by 7:00 am
than I do
in an entire day
But if I wake
at 6:59 am
and turn to you
to trace the outline of your lips
with mine
I will have done enough
and killed no one
in the process.
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