I watch as you stir
beneath the covers - they are not silk
like you deserve,
yet you wake stretching
and smiling a crooked smile.
And like the deity you are,
you clamour through the kitchen
for a cup of tea
and sit atop a desk
where you speak with the sun
through glances alone.

I like to believe that you are
looking for something
in that red glare of morning
-hope, perhaps love.
And yet, I love you so:
I love the way you unfurl
the pages of a book
like moth's wings
-I love that you know
where all the lost things go
and your habit of brewing a second cup
for breakfast when you laugh
around bites of buttered toast.

I love you most in those moments
when you seem
to hold all of time in your hands.
Before the day begins,
when you are most yourself
-and at your most wonderful.