Sunday morning, 10:00 AM

Isn't it fascinating, the things that love transforms from common and unnoteworthy into little pieces of art?

I sat and watched you sleep this morning. Not long, just a few minutes. Not enough to shake you toward the surface.

I watched your eyes twitch in a dream. Learned the rhythm of your breath, and that it catches in the exhale, not the inhale. Watched the slight movement of the tip of your tongue against your top teeth through the window of your barely-parted lips. There's the hangup, there's the catch. That's why you sleep better on your stomach, because your tongue doesn't mess with your breathing so much, that way.

Listened to your heartbeat, watched it in your throat. Felt the delicious heat rise off your skin, and I wish I could explain why the texture of your skin feels like home and there are times when I just want to pet you.

Caught the way the sunlight catches in your hair, turns the blond strands lighter than gold, turns the few wisps of grey to platinum. Shines.

It's 10:00, and the day's almost half gone.
In seven hours, I'll have to leave and go back to the daily grind, and when I'll get to lie here wrapped in the warmth and texture and scent of you again, I don't know.

But we were up till two this morning, and I think you were up till three, and you need more than six hours' sleep to function properly. So into the livingroom with me, to write a letter you won't see till Monday, when you check the blog at work.

I love you.
One of these days, the crow in me will take a day off, and you'll wake up before I do.
Will you tell me if I snore?