When the Morning Comes

We lay holding each other.  Only a dim gray light that has breached the windows from the street post outside fills the room. Details of her face are clear even in the darkness.  A small scar above her right eyebrow that holds my curiosity.  The slight curl of her stretching eyelashes.  Freckles that are known only to those who have been lucky enough to share the intimate space I’m in now. She turns to look at me, then smiles.  A bashful laugh emits.  She closes her eyes and turns away.

Her room is small.  Her pillows are used.  The blanket is soft.  Felled shoes rest outside of her open closet door.  Our clothes piled in the corner.  This is her world when she no longer allows the world to be her host, and I am her guest.

Words are exchanged, but seem almost unnecessary.  Smiles of wonder and passion are shared through a unique language of which only our bodies can speak.  I’ll learn more this way.

She’s not mine, I’m not hers, because at this moment these possessions don’t matter.  We belong to no one, yet choose to share the evening together.  The future is not a thought.  The past does not exist.  The present is what we have, and all we have.

Tomorrows are for when the morning comes.

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