The Love Letter: Part I

In the morning, we are perfect.

That’s how a love letter should begin.

In the morning, you and I are everything. We’re the world in its entirety. Everything that is not us is simply excessive. The whole world is this: my bed, warm with our bodies. Small lights that show up doubly in the recesses of your sleepy eyes. Music that is contrived, perhaps, but does it matter? There is precious little that can ruin these moments before the world wakes up, when it’s just you and I together, limbs tangled, my arms under the nape of your neck that I know so well, your cheek against my shoulder. I can feel your breath against the hollow of my throat. I feel your lips turn up when you smile. I lose little pieces of myself to you then, and in a small way, you become a part of me. You don’t have to speak, because what would you say? There’s nothing to say. And yet, we talk sometimes, and then there’s gentle laughter that rocks the bed, smiles that crinkle the corners of our eyes, dimples deepening in the corners of our cheeks. The light changes every few minutes, shifting, and when the room changes from dark blue to the paleness of day, I know that our time is limited. But then again, I have the rest of that morning, and of the morning after, and every day that we choose to begin together until forever. There is no end to this. There is no end to us. Which is why it’s never as difficult as it should be to leave you lying there, smelling of warmth and soap and familiarity. You are mine. You are my love.

In the morning, we are perfect.