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Who you are at daybreak, when the grass glitters with dew and the birds sing, is a completely different person than the rest of the day. Did you know that, love?
You’ll wake in an hour or so when the dew has half dried with a single-minded focus for a cup of tea and toast, swearing up and down that you’re going to be late to work.
You never are.
And yet, you’ll scramble into the shower, toast hanging out of your mouth as you soft-toss yesterday’s empty teacup onto the bathmat to make room for today’s cup on the shower rack I cleared out just for you. It was supposed to be for your fancy soaps, so they didn’t have to mingle with my ‘five-in-one monstrosity.’ But if you’d rather shove them in next to my monstrosity so your morning tea has a place to sit, that’s okay with me.
You’ll hop out, grab your wand from the bathroom counter where you strategically left it the night before, and whip out spells to create the image of you that you want the world to see. Your hair will be pin-straight and pulled back in a tidy, sleek ribbon. Your face will be moisturized after a close, clean shave. Your teeth will be perfect and gleaming pearly white. Add all that with your bespoke robes inlaid with spellwork to keep them perpetually immaculate and you become terrifying.
Your perfection – the way you’ve bullied every bit of you into submission to look the best, be the best – scares people. Your shoulders are too straight, your jaw too level, your tone too measured, for anyone to relax around you. Your team is the hardest working of the entire company, all too frightened of disappointing you. Not because you’re cruel to them, inflict unjust punishments, or any such thing your competitors have accused you of. It’s just the power in your step, the control in every flick of your wand, and the intention in your every word, they’re compelled to never find out what you’re like when that control falls away.
But what they don’t realize is, it never does when you’re awake.
You think you relax when you come home and have your glass of wine with dinner. You think you’ve found peace in your evening tea with your latest book in your lap and your feet in mine. But I know the truth.
The truth is, you don’t even fuck freely; restrained even as you insist that you’re letting go of the reins to simply enjoy the experience of my touch. I love you dearly, but whatever that is you’re doing in bed, is not what anyone else would consider as ‘letting go.’
But when dawn breaks and my internal clock rings, I get to witness this beautiful proof that you can let go. It’s my seventh wonder in the world, you at your most relaxed.
The moment it happens, the moment you drop the tension you fell asleep hanging onto like a comfort stuffie, goes unwitnessed. It’s a miracle of the middle of the night when the strict lines of the professional switch out for pillow creases in your tender skin.
I’m blessed that you sleep like the dead for it gives me the freedom to trace the pink lines on your cheek, down your beautiful neck, and over your shoulders without disturbing you. I follow every line, grazing my fingers over your soft skin, learning this new road map of well-familiar terrain. I know your body better than I know my own, and yet, each morning brings me a new way to traverse you, a new path to adore.
Even your hair relaxes, not afraid of your strict straightening spells when you’re asleep like this. It’s a shame your parents taught you to hide your mother’s curls because you’re precious like this, with your brilliant halo of hair and tensionless mouth.
Almost too precious to see how you could become the strict being you’ll be in an hour or so. You will though, you’ll shuck away this tender self, unaware of your own sweetness.
And I will miss this version of you. I’ve spent many days dreaming about ways to bring him to the surface. I want to know your softest smile and the rumble of your voice wishing me a good morning and the way your eyes might crinkle in the corners if you’d allow yourself such a gentle existence.
I’ve taken you to quiet islands and luxury spas. We’ve had sex on private piers, the subtle crash of waves around us and the sun kissing our skin. I’ve dedicated hours to prepping and planning and packing so that not a second of your brain space was needed. And I’ve tried so very hard to find the pressure point that’d turn you limber and loose, massaging you until my hands tire and we succumb to our lust fed by your moans of pleasure.
And you thank me. You don’t shy from expressing how grateful you are when I give you a chance to relax. Your grin was so alit and sly when you teased me that you first thought me taking masseuse lessons was odd, but are now happy to reap the benefits.
I am glad you’re happy, but it’s not enough. Your brain is still whirring. Your movements are still far too precise. You’ve still not met my morning love.
I’ll keep trying. If I can meet you here, when the day’s first rays kiss your skin and you’re still slumbering without the weight of your worries, then I can meet you anywhere. I just have to find the right path that will lead me to you.
Until then, I’ll keep reading your pillow creases like a map to paradise, lingering in bed beside you until your pale lashes start to flutter. I don’t like sticking around for what comes after; when your soft pink mouth purses, your brow furrows, and the tension snaps back into your body like a curse. It makes me too sad.
So I’ll rise with the fluttering and shuffle out to start your tea, already counting down the seconds to tomorrow’s daybreak when I get to see you again.