There's something about wearing your PJs out to see the same eyes
that the night before saw orchestrated looks.
Tussled messes are shared upon our heads.
You braid the strands a few times and I try to make my hand a sufficient comb.

Coffee sipped on lips still tasting
of ***** and rolls of tobacco.
Sun drank on sleepy eyes.
Drizzle consumed on skin still smokey from the fire.

All the same, from cuffed sleeves and cologne.
All the same, from winged eyes and that skirt you wear so well.
The smiles, laughs, and embraces.
The sighs, support, and reassurings ring the same.

There's something about how we look.
How we look at each other the morning after,
That speaks louder than the shots and lyrics
we mouth so enthusiastically.

We stepped out of that skin
but we are still met
"There you are!"
and never "Where did 'that' you go?"