My favorite moments, before the alarm, before the sun on cold winter mornings, wrapped up in, cocooned by, cradled in warm blankets, a deep breath, a nestling down in, before the day starts, before the coffee, before the to-do lists, when hope doesn't have to exist, it's a breath in and a breath out, roll over, stretch out, curl up, fall back to sleep, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...
When we can have entire conversations with a held glance, beyond words - syllables too complex, too simplistic, words as rough approximations weighted and turned over again and again - a breath in and a breath out, eyes held and held and held, a knowing. Before and before and before, precise definitions, periods, question marks, exclamations points, beginnings and endings.
When an arm's length away means a swoop and a swirl, a dip, and a giggle. A reach across the empty space, scooched closer across the couched futon, a pulling in, an embrace, an arm draped over my shoulder, forearms bow-tied at my sternum, hand at my waist. A gap to close, before the cushions mold to our bodies, before choreographed movement becomes muscle memory, before we put the puzzle pieces together with closed eyes, cushion-arm-waist-arm-leg-leg-head-cushion. Before arm's lengths measure in inches, centimeters, millimeters, that match speech intonations, dinner dishes in the sink, toothpaste caps, emails from the boss, the number of hours our arms draped over each other from sundown to sunup.
When every hello and every goodbye feels simultaneously like the first and the last and perhaps every one in between.
Before the best and the worst, or perhaps the nothingness, the sacred or the profane, before the day but after the night, in tiny moments, simple and pure, with depth and lightness, a breath in, a breath out, stretch out, curl up, fall back to sleep.
