You always wake up earlier than you should. I envy you, able to see the sun rise on Saturday mornings while I am still cocooned in leopard-print blankets and dreams of dragons and unicorns and you.

Your senses come back to you slowly, lazily, knowing that they have all the time in the world before pancakes and syrup demand their full attention.

Your pillow smells like my hair, from when we lay sprawled across the mattress. It was nice, both of us without a care in the world but the love held in our arms and our hearts. It's the first thing you notice, and you smile a secret grin to the rising sun.

Twenty miles across the city, I'm still asleep. Snoring, probably, but still asleep. But visions of you dance in my head, in place of sugarplums. I'm not awake, but I'm thinking about you constantly.

You're eating pancakes. And as you reach for the syrup and butter you see the purple paint smeared across your counter, from my pants. I came straight from theatre crew to see you, and you cornered me in the kitchen and kissed me. Forgetting, as we always do, that I had fresh paint all over me.

And months from now, you'll wake even earlier, because you crossed time zones. And you won't get pancakes and syrup unless it's a special occasion, because college cafeterias just don't care about the holy ceremony of Saturday mornings. I won't have just slept on your pillow, and I won't be coming over after crew.

But I hope that I still cross your mind, when you first open your eyes.

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