Morning dawns, sung to light by jarring alarm.
I must wrest myself from bed,
from the intoxication of my arm around your waist,
from the tickling touch of my nose in your hair.
I will wake you with a kiss and coffee.
The cat will curl against you, ears low and content.
I will be off to class before you blink yourself awake.
We live atop each other, far too close,
my books and Bibles bumped against your bills and binders.
You work and I work, side by side and sometimes silent,
the cat fighting for a lap between papers and pens.
Dishes stack the sink for days.
Boxes and bottles line the narrow hallway.
My scattered shoes clutter the doorways, front and back.
It is, by most measures, a boring life.
Yet each day we choose each other again.
The weaving of our fingers
is the loom of my heart and life,
and how I would be unraveled
if I were to be without you.
I cannot pour six years of love
into any measure we can hold —
but we make promises new each day
and kiss them into truth each dawn,
sealed by matching mugs, handles worn,
steam curling the cool air.