Journal: Early

For once, you are up with the alarm.  No flipping your ancient phone open and setting the snooze function by feel with still-sleeping fingers.  Our window with blinds down is a soft glowbox of morning blue.  The timid light turns your undershirt the color of ice, but when I, barely awake myself, lay my fingers against your back you are as warm as always.  Your face, a black profile against the morning, shows the sharp, frank curve of your beak of a nose, the tracery of your glasses.  My hand slides down your spine.  Pilled cotton, old shirt, familiar shape.  And, Sorry, babe, you say, and the bed beside me is empty.  This is all I will see of you for two weeks.  Unless that was really you in your uniform bending over me, smiling, to kiss me when I opened one eye just for a moment and fell back to sleep.  I am not sure I wasn't dreaming.