It’s early. It’s very early, and with guilty eyes I look over you, smiling at how peaceful you look. I should be waking you now, it’s time for you to go to work and I know this fully well, but I can’t. It’s so foolish how I…I can’t…

I turn away from you and look out my bedroom window, breathing onto the windowpane; fogging it up and then wiping it clean. It never gets old. For minutes I stand there, admiring the way my breath – your breath, in essence - glistens on the sheet of frozen glass. And this causes me to exhale and exhale and exhale, until I finally have a canvas.

I draw hearts, and nothing else comes to mind. I draw a big heart, I fill it with quite a few smaller hearts, and I draw until my fingertip is nearly frozen. Taking it between my lips, I let myself blink at the childlike innocence and immaturity I have just let myself display. Lifting my fisted other hand to wipe the window clean, I stop myself.

It’s okay. It’s okay.

It’s okay to be a child sometimes. At twenty three years of age, I understand now that I grew up too fast, and he grew up too fast; we all grow up too quickly. But neither of us grew up at all. He ran away from his problems; I hid from mine underneath needles and dirty bed sheets.

We never take the time to appreciate the innocence we have. It has never been enough. It is enough.  
You are enough. You are more than enough. Why are you here?


Turning my head over my shoulder, I find myself almost to the point of tears.
You’re still here. You want to be here.



As sunlight begins to illuminate the hearts I drew, as the condensation begins to drip, I drop my robe and I crawl back into bed, falling into my place next to you. You stir, and I wait for you to fall back asleep before I gently run my fingers against your face. It hurts, but I’m happy. Oh, I am so happy.

It was worth being burned a few times.