If I could remember, I’d tell you how much it hurt to see the sun coming through on your shoulder, where I held you for the thousandth time. How I was just the right amount of drunk and awake to notice the tan line on your neck, and miss the hostile cold of a hung over dawn. The morning affection of warmth and nakedness stopped me from saying what I was thinking, so I watched all the unsaid things float to the ceiling like swollen balloons, your hand on my stomach. If I could describe it, I’d tell you everything, so I could pretend the closeness of your body upon waking was more than just what was expected. And that this familiarity was really more like love.