Each morning, I love you the way the sun loves the Earth as it sets itself to slumber, playfully digging its heels into the blanket folds of sky and pouting, a petulant child. I wrap my arms around your waist the way that last band of light hugs the horizon
as you get ready for work, cherishing.
It leaves sweet caresses on its favorite parts of its lover, as I do, leaving golden stains on leaf-tips and nestles in the lap with all the sleepy, sad semblance of my own as I watch the donning of the shoes, the patting of the pockets.
Eyes wanting dearly to be blind can't help flitting towards the clock, and it is for this reason that I have learned to love you the way time loves the minutes on that very clock, lapping up every crumb. Unsuccessful at blindness, I soak up the sight of you sleeping on your stomach, on your back, curling me close to your side. Your arm tightens around me, the rest of your muscles shaking themselves loose, when nearly drifting.
I drink up the monologues you hum to yourself, in different rooms amidst sets of rhythmic tasks that they accompany, the fervor with which I drink the coffee you serve me in bed.
Despite the metaphor, I love that we refuse to be planets in each other's orbits,
instead preferring two horizons that rush to meet each other, painting watercolors
out of moonlight, and love like dawn.