The Morning

The room was a mess.
Neither he nor she lived in a home they called their own. His was a sublet on an endless list of Gypsy Housing temporaries. Hers was a blue suitcase full of the basics, a Burton backpack, and a reusable grocery bag with varying levels of snacks.
They were sticky in a windowless room. Two bodies sharing a cube of sitting air. The pitiful burgundy sheet of the single mattress lay crumpled under their feet. No bed frame. Just a little rectangle on the floor, boasting two sticky, braided bodies. Blanket be damned. Fie on a bigger-than-single mattress or bed frame. Organized bedrooms were for chumps, anyway.

Love is an interesting thing. Love makes palaces out of creaky, windowless rooms. Love observes the surroundings in which it finds itself and gives zero fucks, dropping everything where it lands and putting a unique, total contentment in a moment that any outside observer would balk at. Love is not a stoppage of time, but a letting go of the idea that time matters. I Love You transcends time and memory. It sticks to the skin both inside and out. Clings to a depth of consciousness thus far unknown to most.

They woke slowly, their breaths the only shared cycling of the still air. Their feet touched and stayed touching. They lay, breathing, eyes at rest. No place labelled ‘home’ except each other’s heart.

They had let go of thoughts, of knowing things, of the mattering of time.

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