(my) M.orning J.acket

It's my favorite time of day, when the song of birds has yet to be canceled out by the hum of traffic. Before the construction workers check in and start their engines. It's morning. The sun barely risen, hasn't had time to heat up the city yet and a dim glow creeps between my curtains and blinds and blankets us in a soft wash of color.

He has a prayer written in an ancient language across his back. It speaks to my soul. It is the language of my name of his names and of our parents. I do not understand it, and although he's told me a thousand times what it says, I only recognize: Allah is God.

There are no words between us in the morning hour. It's one foot hooked on another and the heavy sighs that come from being between sleeping and waking. He mumbles softly, and I say my prayers silently. The ever creeping sunlight is sprinkled with kisses and careless movement of two bodies between high thread count sheets.

I often pull away, preferring room to stretch and great the day with open arms. I'm met by a firm grip on my thigh or leg lock or nuzzle that says, not now, be still with me. In mornings I am often restless, contemplating fresh pots of coffee and the buzzing of my blackberry. His languor forces me to contemplating the writing on his back. Indigo ink so dark against his skin the contrast is shocking. I am lulled into the simple pattern of breathing in unison, connecting bio rhythms and drifting in and out of slumber, for what seems like minutes, hours and days, all wrapped into one.

My mind still races as I find myself bound to bed by the sleeping tiger. I want to brush my teeth and burn incense, play a Coltrane song, but he will not be moved nor stirred, and if so it only to return to the prone position in my arms.

It's these wordless moments that remind me how vulnerable we are, bare to the world itself. An effort in futility as we try to hold on the comforts of night when we know a new day is calling. These are the moments never spoken of, when a hand is squeezed while a sigh is released, and if I could reach up and grab just one of his thoughts out of the air, I would. Instead I must find comfort in this lacksidasical morning moment, that consists not of sexual advances, nor tales of our past, just deep contemplation of the now.

It's just us, wrapped in the warmth of Indian Summer, with a slight breeze from the fan. I finger the letters of a prayer, inked into the width of his shoulders, with a silent acknowledgment that for now he is (my) m.orning j.acket