8:53 am.
I’m laying in bed on a Friday morning. It’s 8:53 and I don’t work until noon and so I have a moment or two to stare at the ambiguous shadow-shapes in this dark room with the little window above my bed. An indentation of my lover’s head is still to the left of me. A hollow. A concave pillow. He left for work but moments ago and I already wish this invisible shell were more than clam-colored cotton fibers and goose feathers. The kettle is hissing. The bath water might be lapping onto the floor. But the sheets are still warm and I’m not ready for morning just yet.
