I fell in love with the 

morning, how you stumbled out

of bed when you first woke up,

and how your eyes groaned with

exhaustion.

The way your hands grasped my 

hipbones while your lips stole

the ending of my sentence.

Everyday with you felt like a 

month of Sunday mornings with

white bed sheets and lazy

smiles.

That same morning, I fell in

love with the coffee shop down

the street, the way you

asked for two sugars, but you

actually meant three.

The walk home from your house

made me remember what Monday

mornings feel like. 

Somewhere in between falling

in love with our midnight

conversations that were

exhaled through cigarette

breaths and interrupted by

coffee stains,

and reading love notes you

had written on my flesh,

I realized,

I am in love with the presence

of your words

and the feel of your

existence.

But I am not in love with you.