I stretch languidly underneath the covers, a quiet security in between each fold of the sheets.

As the sun rises, my eyes follow the arc it makes in the sky, bringing light to the cold January morning.

I watch the early morning runners passing by with their leashed dogs,

I watch the cars hesitantly pull out of snowy driveways, as fathers and mothers head to work, and kids to school.

They are the active participants of the morning, the people who follow the arc of the sun – not with eyes, but with bodies.

They are not the watchers, the silent watchers, the ones who stay underneath covers and sheets.

For some, the morning sun brings hope, a fresh start to another day.

For others, the sunrise means dread, another morning of trying to start after a sleepless night.


In the morning, there is no lover to greet me, no steaming breakfast awaiting me.

Only the stillness of the moment, the rustling of sheets as I toss and turn, trying to catch the last few tendrils of sleep,

Before I am awake again.

I’ve never dreaded consciousness so much.

The worries of the day say hello, giving me a flirty wave.

I throw off the blankets, the cold air hitting my bare legs.

Then I throw them back on, nestling deeper into the cocoon of pillows and blankets –

I suppose this would be another morning where the anxieties win –

and I continue to watch the sun pass by.



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