I keep waking up to mornings which are barely cold.

​The coffee in the mug having dried down to a trickle, sticky, and I find myself slowly crouching out of the bed, cringing at the way our skins refuse to leave each other and I drag myself to the kitchen to make some coffee.

Sometimes, when it aches to get out of bed and yet, sleep is a distant story, I watch you as you sleep. strands of hair sticking to the side of your face, mouth partly open and at times, I lean in and kiss your cheek and that little scar painted across your face from last night.

I keep waking up to mornings which barely smell of smoke; a thin screen of mist somewhere outside the window, looking back at me as I try to look beyond it. sometimes, I try pushing away the blankets but you mumble in your sleep and turn around, hugging them closer to yourself. on those days, I sit next to the window, the straps of my top slowly sliding down cracked skin with every breath and I wait for you to wake up and press your cold lips against me, just to take away that dull ache that’s been there for quite a while.

I keep waking up to mornings that are all but white and gray and grayer. like a world which has lost all it’s blue, yellow and red; like a world dipped in monotone and loosing color like the falling plaster on the walls around me. it’s not cold. neither is it the typical sticky afternoon of a summer break. I want to curl up in the bed again.

“hey,” you say. “what’s wrong?”

I wish I could tell you I wanted a piece of winter; I wanted winters to leave a piece behind, next to the window, that’d lull me back to sleep on mornings I wake up to rather early. the thin screen of mist outside has vanished like the one stranger who trudges inside a bar, orders a drink and leaves before anybody turns to ask him where is he staying for the night. you smile;

And push yourself out of the bed and leave.


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