I once told, "I love you in the mornings." We've slept it off and wake up confused about what went on the night before, the tension and fatigue, the circular arguments in which there is never an answer, only the rub of two imperfect souls staking a claim on the truth as each one sees it. We are weary. We stop talking. Nothing is resolved - again. Our voices give way to the breaths we take in the dark - sighs of frustration segue into the rhythmic breath of sleep. The body surrendering.
I roll to the edge of the bed, still awake, the chasm widened intentionally by my need to escape. My instinct for peace. I am not avoiding you. Every part of me is stuffed full and I can't hold anymore. I want to go. Fight or flight! The breeze, the hum of mosquito, the breath of our child that I cannot hear from this room but that I can feel in my bones like the very marrow that inhabits them. In your semi-slumber, you have softened and you come for me at the edge of the bed, enveloping me in the warmth of your body, too irresistible to hold this grudge, the oxytocin flowing now like honey from the hive.
You remember that your exhalations at the nape of my neck are cool against my skin and you bring the sheet up between your nose and my back as a barrier. You want to keep me warm. You mumble something to me as I fall into dream-like terrain. Softly, quietly, it goes something like this: "Love's not that complicated. It's remembering to pull the sheet up so I don't make you cold when I breathe out." Somewhere inside, I want it to be more complicated, but your words resonate with wisdom and in that moment, I wake up as I drift off.
From RVA; living, working, and raising a son in Auckland, NZ