By Luka Walters

I’ve always considered myself a night owl; I did my best work at night.
The moon, my assistant.
The bed, my desk.
The deep dark thoughts, my to do list.
My You list.
My send all my energy toward bringing me to you list.
And it’s been good.

But today you came over in the morning, at the beginning of the day.
No time for real breakfast, last night’s cleansing holding over,
still almost fresh.
And after an hour with you in the morning,
I am starting to see what all these 5 AM joggers have been on about.
I usually take a while to wake, to get started.
I’m an old car with a clunky motor.
I require several key turns and “please please please” prayers before I get going
(I am stubborn, but I am worth it)
But this morning, I got started with ease.

No resistance here.
Your hands steering me, our time together a wheel.
I give into you no problem – an expert mechanic,
a clockmaker’s hands
Tell me where to go and I’m gone
Tell me what you need and I’m there
ask me without words, it’s yours
It’s yours
It’s yours
I’m yours.

The only problem with spending the morning with you is that, while everything else looks so beautiful afterward, nothing else feels nearly so good.
We’ve spent two nights together, next to each other, that is. A few others we were close, but connected only by mutual craving, not touch. Hundreds more we spent touching through thought. We have made homes in each other’s dreams.

After so much wanting, the times when I can give myself to you wholly never feel long enough. What will I do when I can spend the night and morning with you? When I can spend however much time I have left on you? Or with you? What will I do when we come together at the close of an evening? What will we do when we can take our time, slowly? What will I do when we are an ocean instead of a hurricane? A steady rain instead of lightning?

I’ve learned to love you in spurts, because each hour I had with you was the only one out of however many there are in a week (I’ll look it up later when I need a distraction). I’ve been training to love you like a sprinter, exploding off my usual life event to be with you. I’ve learned to love you in discomfort and unease, yet haven’t we been training for a lengthier love?

Perhaps we’ll get there and we will relax. Perhaps we will do crosswords in bed; you’ll kiss me on the nose and we’ll fall asleep at a reasonable hour. A rest could be nice after so much running.

Or maybe we’ll keep pace instead.

Getting to be with you consistently and openly is not the trophy for the races we’re running now. Making you pancakes is not a retirement from the work we’ve been doing. You are not an island that I come to visit. You are critical pieces of a home I am building: the open door. The solid foundation. The exposed walls.

The old school fireplace.

I will make the most of my time with you. Whether we keep running or we take a rest, may we never stop training.

It’s the love that we build, and the love builds the house.

But the love dies every night when we become unconscious.

And it is born again – differently, for a moment, to a new degree, at a different intensity – every morning when we wake up.

Maybe I’m a night owl because I savor that day’s love before it’s gone.

Maybe the morning is anxiety because I know I have to re-learn you again.

Image: Franca Giminez

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