I roll over.
Your face is turned away from me; your backside now tucked snug against my hip. My foot curls around your ankle, my toes lay parallel with yours.
I love laying like this. Together. In sync. In silence. In the early morning light.
I listen to your breathing, soft and regular, in rhythm with the sound of the surf against the rocks I can also hear from our open window.
I wrap my free arm around you and pull you in closer. I press my stomach more firmly against your back, and you stir slightly, then nestle back in, your breathing once again steady and familiar.
I love that I can smell the scent of your hair like this, and the slightly male sweatiness and odor of you I love so much.
My nose presses in against your neck as I breathe you in.
I think my body will always remember the shape of you, the warmth of you, pressed against me, as we spoon together in the early morning light; even long after my mind might forget you as I age and we grow older.
It is enough.
To live for these moments.
To remember these moments.
The small things. Little things. But, so important.
Good morning, my love.