Morning time


Some people wake up like they were pierced with a spindle. Sleeping beauty and waking beauty, their faces are blessed with that eternal grace of fulfillment that needs no coffee. I’m not a coffee drinker myself, I like the smell not the taste. But mornings are not my thing. I can wake up at the sound of my name in the middle of the night, my mind senses the urgency in a tone of voice, the light of my phone at night is enough to make me open my eyes wide in a panic that something has happened.

Yet when morning comes my body is lifeless like a comatose patient, I open my eyes hesitantly, just a slit to feel with my hands, like one of the three blind mice. It takes a lot more squirming and convulsions of my body at weird angles stretching the sleep out of my limbs before I can groggily swing my legs out of bed and walk with eyes half shut to the bathroom. Anyone who happens to be in my way becomes an automatic vertical bed and I lean on them falling asleep standing up. If it’s my mum then I’m usually hanging over her shoulder making whimpering noises with my face scrunched up like an angry toddler while she rubs my back and croons soothingly, holding me like she’s done for 23 years.

Morning time is for nuzzling into someone’s neck, whimpering because you’re cold and the sheets have come off the small of your back. Morning time is for being tickled awake gently like a child with kisses that linger on my skin long after your lips have left. Morning time is for fingers of sunlight poking holes into my hair spread across your chest, your chin resting on my head as your survey the damage we’ve done and smile.

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