morning song

Dark room, no sharp slice of sun. I extricate my sleep laden face from your chest, a little irritated. Light a cigarette, relishing the quick rush of morning nicotine. I fold and refold a paper, analysing the newly formed crease. You sleep steadily, mouth slightly open. I admire your beautiful cheekbones. You stir, stretch out your hand, reaching for me. I nestle like a cat. You suddenly remember something grave from the previous night. Frowning, you start rolling a joint. I sulk, argue. You retort. We play this for thirty minutes and suddenly, stoned, I pun. Instant exchange of mirth and consequent displacement of anger.
We stretch, talk, watch some television. We eat. You, meticulously with your knife and spoon, I clumsily with my hands. I touch your funny hair. You stare at me, call me affectionately. An invader walks in. I yawn, move downstairs and read for a bit. My mind creates a gigantic web and starts weaving patterns on it. I turn grey. Occasionally, crimson.  I am grim. I can hear your laughter. Dusk sets in slowly, spreading its beautiful red face across the sky. We prepare for the night.