Morning…
I desperately wish I could say it was a good one.
You’re laying with your back turned to me and any sign that I might try to hold you is disconnected by the moping groan that fills the sheets.
Any attempt at affection is shot down from point-blank range and I’ve run out of bodies to throw in the way.
The silence isn’t comfortable anymore and my safe haven doesn’t feel so safe.
It’s probably our fault, again.
The love we make in trying to reconnect feels like a half done chore with the floor still left in a mess.
Morning…
I desperately wish that in your drunken state you didn’t look at me like you didn’t know who I was to you instead of smiling like you did before.
That whatever we made was sloppy, joyful and prized to be kept in our memories like the last 365 memoirs we wrote to each other.
That my lips can write scriptures that would one day tell stories of the feelings we tossed at the moon with our hands clutched to each other swearing eternity.
We’re sharing a bed, but we’re on different ends of the earth. My arms are stretched out and I can only hope your feet burst off the ground so you can make it back to me.
Morning…
I desperately want us to have a good one.

The Short Story:
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