I seem to be a morning person
A lover recruited by the morning sun.
But this morning air is too cold and this sunshine doesn't seem enough to cover bare bodies.

Tugging on the blanket while intertwined bodies toss and turn.
I accidentally wake him, or maybe purposely?
Because when he wakes up;
he slurs his words, he's not made for mornings apparently.
His eyes blink, unwillingly and his limbs barely move.
But his skin glows and he invites me back in again.

Morning people don't exist to him.
But I do, and I trace the lines of his skin, I hover above spots that make him giggle.
I brush through his dark thick hair and admire his closed eyes, creases that predict an age too old for him.
It reveals his most human feature, the amount he smiles.

Smell of him on my skin,  my hair in knots
warmed with the heat his body has to offer.
Mornings like this.
He rolls over, face buried in the mattress with one eye open he examines me.
But he barely tries, and tells me I'm beautiful.
I don't think he notices how beautiful he is too.