Perfect Morning

When you're in love, aren't mornings bliss?

You sit on the half-rusting away balcony, strumming mindlessly on your father’s mahogany guitar. Your silhouette softly lit by the glow of the wrap-around tea lights.  You are looking for the spark, the muse in the wind that will whisper what song the sun wants to be sung to sleep to. I can hear it from the kitchen in the way you hum.

I chuckle softly as the tea kettle whistles, filling our peppermint tea an inch away from the brim, scooping in a spoon full of honey from the jar with the honeycomb still in, add the little twist of lemon to bring the perfect cuppa to completion.

You always wonder how I know, and all I can ever say is, “Baby, it’s not rocket science. You’re a man of habit.” Or chalk it up to womanly intuition.

It’s the same way I know when you’ve brought home a plague of sorts from your day. It clings to the edges of your smile, the subtle scowl engraved in your temple. I stand on my tippy toes and attempt to smooth it out with a kiss, before going to the bathroom to fill the tub. Dabbling rosehip and lavender oil into the bathwater, I light some incense and candles, close the door and leave you to your peace.

Today was one of those days. I notice your hair still dripping as I place our tea on the wicker table. I smile, quietly wondering if you know how inexplicably gorgeous I find you in this particular fleeting moment.

Like on the perfect mornings where I arise just as the sunrise is beginning to peak through our eyelet lace olive green curtains, the rays hugging the curls of your brown hair, kissing your jaw line in all the ways my teeth yearn to. You’ve woken up a few times in those moments, your sleepy eyes only half comprehending that you are being marveled like a masterpiece, your gleaming goofy grin making my heart palpate in the ways that confirm I am whole heartedly in love with you.

Your eyes blink in repetitious flicks, like a remote turning on the consciousness. “You’re looking at me like I’m some sort of Adonis.” You once remarked.

I leaned into to kiss your stinky lips. “You’re more of a Pan.” I laughed softly. You join in, grabbing my hips, pulling me in.

“And what shall I call you, my mistress?”

I feign hurt, scoffing., clutching my chest. “Mistress? Here I thought you might love me, now there’s another woman. I’m offended.”

You roll your eyes. “It’s too early for your dramatic s**t.”

We spend the perfect mornings laughing, witty banter filling the air before our stomachs grumble- two bodily gods that demand to be fed.

We saunter our naked bodies out of bed, skins tingling with that glow only love brings.

I silently hope, as I stand in the doorway, watching you dance around the kitchen, that the gods will bless this humble temple of our home. I pray they will bless us with many seasons of tranquil sunrises with sunny-side up eggs. But even if they don’t, I hope you know that in this moment, I crave nothing but you. In this moment, I am bliss.