I hate leaving you in bed.
It is categorically unfair.
Your eyes barely flutter open as you kiss me good morning,
but your hands are strong as they pull me back down for another,
elbows locking behind my ribs
despite my half-hearted protestations.
Getting dressed is the last thing on my mind.
Your collarbone, bare, catches the shadows of early morning
and I want to lie down there,
wrap myself in your thick dreams and hide.
But the morning won't let me.
I am resigned to my workday, you enshrined in the comforter,
suspended in my mind until I return.
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