poetry for the poetic: 4

one hundred and eighty five.

morning came with the scent of you. it was sweet on my lips. i inhaled the cotton sheets with your cologne, and my eyes closed, drifting away with the taste of you still on my lips.

mornings were the sweetest; those days when i woke up to see your eyes freeze time, before that lapse of momentum where you finally break a smile; the way you make my heart break a sweat when you say you love me; when my toes are tangled around your legs; the way my fingers curled at the shape of your neck as i pulled you towards me so i can breathe kisses in you, when the day started and your first words were for me in that hummed low voice.

nothing could've been better than to stay there, and watch the mornings you unfold before me, because you wipe away the moon's blackened backdrop, you give stars a break from catching wishes that didn't fall on eyelashes, you told me you loved me and i believed it, i thought then and there you were the reason my days had a sun. to make me see why 

i'm still here.

but then the days came when, i woke up to you with only a stitched memory on the sheets.

missing you and still finding you in things i have right now feels a lot like waking up at the wrong side of the bed; it's awfully frustrating to find i can't do anything about it, only to hopefully wake up one day and the morning is suddenly better without a single reminder of you in my mind, in everything.