sometimes at 6am

we're not always wide awake at 6am.
we walk across the room to turn off the alarm with our eyes slightly closed still, attempting to hold on to that small piece of sleep.
the bathroom linoleum is cold on our soles and the steam from the hot shower water doesn't seem to spread fast enough.

get in.

we wash away the funk we collected in our dreams and the small traces of lent we collected on our foreheads, pressing our palms against the wall, allowing the thousands of beads of water to race down my back.

the lotions, body sprays, colognes and perfumes keep us breathing down each other's neck while attempting to eat our cream of wheat.

this morning i dreamt of us going deaf.
i think because i love writing you so much.

so i wrote you a letter.
and while we stood on the platform waiting for our train to arrive i slipped it into your purse hoping you'd find it while looking for jolly ranchers.
and i would be right beside you smiling, looking the other direction to keep from looking like the suspect.

at 5:58am i want to board the the train with you, hoping we'd find a cart to ourselves.
we do.

i want to spread the newspaper all over the table and read nothing but the happy sections, because 6am should not be a time for sadness.

your eyes close slightly while i read you the story of the little girl who chased her fishing pole into the deep waters, got carried down stream by the rough waters, but lived because she promised her daddy she'd bake him a cake when they finished fishing, and she had to fulfill that promise.

your head falls back slightly, and i soften the fall with my cheek.
i'm sure your eyes are closed and your dreams are great.

i write on an old receipt i find in my wallet:

"dream of me."

and place it in your coat pocket.

sometimes at 6am we're not always wide awake.