I fell in love with the morning,
how you stumbled out of bed when you first woke up,
and how your eyes groaned with
exhaustion.
The way your hands grasped my hipbones
while your lips stole the end of my
sentences.
Everyday with you felt like a month of Sunday mornings
with white bed sheets and lazy
smiles.
That same morning,
I fell in love with the coffee shop down the street,
and the way you asked for two sugars,
but you actually meant
three.
The walk home from your house made me
remember what Monday mornings
feel like.
Somewhere between falling in love
with our midnight conversations
that were exhaled through cigarette breaths
and interrupted by coffee stains,
and reading the love notes you had written on my flesh,
I realized.
I am in love with the presence
of your words and the feel of you
existence.
I am not in love with
you.
