sunday morning moon
[second person]
You open your eyes and the memories come rushing, as fast but as gentle as the moonlight hitting your carpeted floors last night.
You close them again and you feel your heart join the erratic dance of dust motes under the glare of the downcast morning. There's a lot to go through for such a disoriented consciousness, but most of all you remember the way his body felt beneath that sweatshirt you got him for his last birthday… hard and smooth and defined beneath the thin fabric, your fingers taking its time from his stomach to his chest. Your ability to breathe had long been discarded with the blue ribbon that had seconds ago held your red locks up in a sloppy ponytail.
He was very, very warm.
He stood there, still and quiet in all his messy-haired, bespectacled glory, just looking down at you with a raised eyebrow and a quarter of that trademark smirk.
"Are you going to take it off or should I?"
You glared at him and swatted his arm. "You seriously need a lecture on how not to ruin a moment."
"You seriously need to stop killing me."
And then he pulled you in and made you forget all names but his own.
He throws an arm around you now, and your eyes shoot open. He presses his lips against the back of your neck. The pillows and sheets are cold and it starts to pour, but his warm… everything moves behind you and shifts even closer. You smile and lace your fingers with his, watching the droplets of water chase each other on the window panes.
You know that out there the sun rises with the war, but it doesn't matter. Right now you're here, and he's here, and if only until the rain stops and the morning goes you're both young and in love and alright.
He whispers good morning and you can hear his smile, your name in his voice the perfect lyrics to the melody of the rain.
