You are still asleep. And that alone makes me a little less innocent. I don’t want to wake you. I want to touch you. This quiet conflict is enough to turn my heart into a warm ache. A thin line of light slips through the curtain and stops at your shoulder. I envy it. Light is allowed to touch you with such a harmless face. So I hold my breath and watch the tender mess of your hair. Last night, you were all mischief in my arms, calling my name again and again, until the room went quiet. Just remembering that silence makes me want to pull you close again. But you are sleeping. So I look for your hand. When my fingers find yours, you move a little. Only that. Only the smallest answer from somewhere in your sleep. And still, my reason loses. You drift closer without waking, as if even in dreams you know where I am. You win. So I kiss your forehead. I tell myself that will be enough. No. Not enough. Your cheek. Your temple. The corner of your lips where sleep still lingers. I kiss your soft lips. And then, so gently even morning has to wait,
