as an adult i’ve begun to really cherish my mornings, and my soul feels heavier when the morning cascades to darker shadows and shades and finally it’s night. the night is a familiar friend, so i’ll stay up with her even though i’m wasted with weariness and slipping into the sleepiness she pours me. as a kid, she made me feel mature and wild, so i’d compete with the night to see who could stay awake the longest.
the morning is new now. i’ve acquainted her after all my years without understanding her. she’ll saturate me with a morning cup for my hangover from the insomnia hours before, and she’ll wait with me by the window where the sunlight stripes us both—across my lonely plant, across my messy books, across my inches of exposed desk—in pleasant chiaroscuro that crisscrosses like croissants. the morning will sit with me with no words. And in the quiet moments, i’ve begun to fall in love with her.