night to day.



The light is bright, white, but it feels golden. Its slipping in from the window above filling my room, extracting the last bit of night as it consumes the space. The day pours over your skin, lighting the places I held onto in the dark. My eyes follow a curve to your shoulder and I can see each and every one of your freckles.
I never noticed how dark they are. Brown, deep, here to stay. Not like the redish ones that seem to come and go. They cover you. They seem to speak, to tell bits of your story. I try to memorize them before they write any more. I hope they give these moments justice. Full chapters.
As you turn from side to back I watch as your chest rises and falls with your breath, steady. Youre so solid in your sleep. Eyes tight. Quiet. Sure. So sure. I wish you could see it.
I like you like this. Dancing between awake and asleep, resisting the day. Right here. Right next to me.  Here, you're equal parts true and how only I can see you. Its secret. Its mine.
I resist too. I hate to say good bye to the night. But this brief moment, here, in the first light, makes the day ok.




[par-uh-shoot] noun, verb, -chut·ed, -chut·ing.
a folding, umbrellalike, fabric device for allowing a person, to float down safely through the air from a great height.

“But it’s hard to stay mad when there’s so much beauty in the world. Sometimes I feel like I’m seeing it all at once and it’s too much. My heart fills up like a balloon that’s about to burst. And then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can’t feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life.” — American Beauty