It’s 6:20 A.M., and the alarm on my phone gently urges us awake. My thumb clumsily finds the home button. It is silent again. I inhale anxious anticipation of the day ahead and exhale with with the relief that we can snooze just a bit more. I nestle back into the warmth of your bed and turn towards your sleeping body.
At that moment, I am an artist facing a blank canvas. Sunlight seeps into the studio and illuminates the skin on your back. I reach for you.
As soon as my hand finds you, synapses ignite. Thoughts flow quicker than my fingers can move. They glide effortlessly over your warm body. I feel your torso rise and fall with each breath. Your rhythmic breathing reminds me that my writing is a living thing. It changes and grows, just as the writer who nurtures it does too.
My thoughts dance across your back. The ease of it all makes me think that in a past life, you were once my notebook. Now reunited with a pen that is now my hands, I am able to capture everything. In you, I find stories from my past, present, and future.