Mornings

Last night, when you had your hands all tangled up in my hair and my legs were all tangled up in your sheets, you asked me what I wanted from you.

I said mornings.

I want you in pajamas and a coffee mug printed with Shakespeare's finest quotes about love

I want dawn-lit mopeds in the streets of Italy

I want three-forty-five adventures to mountaintops, chasing high-altitude sunrises and solitude

I want your arm in the divot between my hipbone and my ribs

I want you to read me Tosches and Emerson in the honey-light of 7AM in the summer

You said, I can do that.

Wait for me at daybreak. I'll meet you there.