we woke up together, enveloped in each other and your bedsheets, to the sound of soft wind chimes in your bedroom window and cars driving past your home. your room smells like your cologne and the laundry detergent my mother used when i was young. you lazily half moaned, half murmured, "good morning, love," and you, with your dazed condition and morning breath, found my lips and met them with yours. you pulled me in closer and ran your fingers gently through my messy, tangled hair, and i inhaled your scent so deeply i could feel it softly settle in the bottoms of my lungs. the morning sun shined through your bedroom window and the shadows of the trees outside danced in the wind along your baby blue bedroom walls. you ran the tips of your fingers gently in sporadic loops along my shoulder blade and spine. we lay there and took it all in, took each other in, our legs intertwined and my head against your chest. for these few minutes i found myself wishing we could live infinitely in these small, precious moments, the ones we take for granted, the ones we only remember when the big picture is gone. i snuggled closer into your arms and we drifted back to sleep, heartbeats synced and bedsheets entangled in our legs.
