the sun's peeking through the shades,
the morning rain has finally stopped,
i roll over, and see you reading the copy of the writings of florence scovel shin that my father gave me and i never paid mind to.
you glance over to me, adjust your posture to welcome me into your side.
and we lay like this for hours, talking about
people who have let us down,
places we want to find,
things that don't matter anymore.

i'm more than a little disappointed in knowing this will end.
we will get up.
monday will come.
you don't even care that my newly blue and green hair is staining your white shirt.

i know that i pick you over my ego more often than i should.
and i have loved you more than i ever thought i could.
but i think you should leave.

because when i lay back down, you always lean over and kiss me.
and i always sigh through my nose, because you always seem to take all my problems away, along with my breath,
and i think i need to learn how to do the former by myself.

before i let you back in this bed,
and decide that you're the most important person in it.