Pieces of Morning Moments

Morning in our new house is full of light that illuminates the dust as it dances, swept up by my bare feet on the wooden floorboards. The wallpaper, white-washed, crackles and curls in parts, the faint print of 70s flowers buried beneath. There you lie bathed in light on my bed, in our house. I watch the curtain drift up and down in a dawn spiced with the scent of a cautiously approaching winter. I wonder what it is I don’t know about you. What part of you have I not touched? You’re heart is warm against me and though you look lost in sleep, when I creep away you call after me wondering where I’m going to. The smell of incense burning next door floats in our open windows as if it’s coming from half a world away. The ants that pour out of every tiny gap in the foundations of this old 1x1 cover our sink like a plague, I spray them angrily with bleach. Watch ‘em burn in the early morning. Sitting cross-legged at the coffee table eating breakfast I search my surrounds for the point where I stop and you begin. On the porch of smooth burgundy cement we’re trying to grow plants in pots. A basil that drifts in and out of good health in accordance with our interest and a sunflower that sits gracefully at deaths door. Watering the plants, a morning ritual oft forgotten. My favourite thing about this place are the windows. Big, wide open windows with wooden sills upon which I can rest my elbows and gaze nonchalantly out at the endless blue sky. Behind me, bookshelves cover most of the wall space in our lounge, full of little pieces of our souls. The morning chill makes me excited about the arrival of gradually cooler days. I creep around the house in my grandpa slippers, and slip back into bed beside you, cheeks fresh, hands chilled, back into your all encircling warmth.