January 3

I’d wake up from a dream of you, turn to look at you tossed on my not-so-favourite side of the bed. You’d look beaten, exhausted, with drool trickling down from the left side of your lips and wetting the pillow, not flinching from the sunlight that pinched your cheeks or twitching in irritation from the noise of the kid that woke up too early. You’d look like a dead log under a crumpled mess of blankets. You weren’t the most pleasant sight to wake to.

You were the most pleasant thought to wake up to. 


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