stillwater

no. 3: october mornings

You remind me of October mornings.

My window is open. It lets the cool breeze in, the smell of fall resting on its fingertips. My blinds rustle, the sound muffled by the music I am playing, and you lay beside me. Your sleepy eyes look at me, the brightest of blues reflected in the cold sunlight of 10:30 in the morning.

I watch you as you roll away and fall back asleep, hand reaching for something to hold. Your strawberry blonde hair is a messy halo around your head, contrasting with the color of my pillow. I see your bracelets, the ones that your nieces made you. I see where the bracelet I'm making you will go, soft blues and yellows against the bright colors the children you raised chose for you.

I'm sitting here in bed, and you're lying beside me, and, for the first time in a long, long time, I feel content. You make me feel whole, the way your broken pieces fit perfectly into mine. I wish I had a polaroid camera; I wish I could capture this moment in a photo forever, but I can't. So, I'm writing instead. I could write about you forever.