morning

I wake to the sound of glass clanking on plastic. My drowsy eyes smile at the thought of you making coffee when you’re half asleep.  The place where you lay has already chilled. I’ll never get used to the days you wake up before me. 

Our love was once a vagabond. It travelled miles and miles so that we could fall asleep holding one another’s hand. But now your warmth is cupped inside a mug of black liquid and mine is wrapped inside our bed sheets waiting for the sun to rise.

I love you.

I whisper these words to the darkness and imagine them spiraling down the staircase to meet you. I can picture you clutching your coffee as you browse the morning’s news, oblivious to the words floating just above your head.

I love you.

They teeter and sway until they snag the steam that rises from your lips and you take another sip. 

I love you.

You whisper into your mug. The coffee winks and smiles. And I know I must share you this morning, just like every other.

But I love you just the same.