mornings, any day.
Sometimes I was up early, sometimes you left me sleeping in our bed.
They never changed. They only got better.
When I had to get up first, I hoped I would wake up seconds before the alarm would sound, so I could leap out of bed and turn it off, not waking you. Shave, shower and dressed, I would return to our room, catching a glimpse at the sleeping beauty that lay there before me.
Crawling ever so lightly over all the cats, I would inch in so I could lay the softest kiss possible on your forehead or cheek, trying with all my heart not to wake you.
Every morning I would start my day with failure.
You would always stir, ever so slightly, and, not opening your eyes, whisper through mouthguard and sleep, 'Have a nice day, muchacho'
My heart would melt everytime. And everytime I could do nothing but obey.
On those mornings where I was lucky enough to sleep in a little, I would lie there dead to the world, trying desperately to stay asleep while watching you get dressed; a peak at a secret show.
After all your morning rituals you, too, would turn back to the bed, leaning in, and kiss me on my head.
'Have a nice day, muchacho', I would hear through fog and dream. I would smile and turn and head back down to slumberland fully engulfed by the heat and love carried by those words.
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