These are my mornings now: laying in bed, stretching arms out on either side of me to fill the space of a king-sized monstrosity; rolling over on my side, watching venetian blinds flutter against the window, conveniently blocking out summer bright sunshine.
I sit up and stare into the half empty closet, the door still ajar, my blue sweater on the floor, shaken off its hanger when you grabbed your best suit and shirt.
It can’t be summer now, it doesn’t fit. It should be winter, the season of dark, heavy woolen full coverage.
I need protection from the elements.