your lips hung, slightly parted, as you slept through the morning.
your face was smooth and your tiny nose ring glinted in the light that passed through the pine trees and into our tent.
i stared at you, over there, for a long time from where i lay in my sleeping bag, over here.
i knew that, just as it happened two years ago when we lay in the bed at my mother’s house, having spent the night together for the first time, your eyes would slowly flicker open to meet mine and i would somehow have to account for why my gaze was already fixed on yours.
i prepared a hundred different good-mornings, some chipper (“good morning!”) and others saddened (“hey, good—um… good morning.”) or only a little bit saddened (“hey there. good morning.”) just to seem more natural even though they were all still going to be a little bit too chipper.
but i looked away at just the right moment and you muttered, in your tired voice, “how did none of the rain get into the tent?” so all my preparations were obsolete.
i told my mom tonight, that we’re no longer whatever we were and it was only the fourth time i can really remember tearing up in front of her, although it surely happened quite frequently when i was younger. after scraping a knee, for instance, or getting scolded by my brother. the skin on my knee has healed now though, so i’m thinking i’ll just try not to be so concerned. about anything, really.