She had soft hair, wavy, two shades of brown. Her cheeks swelled adorably when she smiled. Her eyes were light and big and perfectly polished. When she was happy something in them swam, smooth ripples rushed outward in golden rings. As the night came nearer their color became deeper, more mysterious, and dark.
Sleep enhanced her beauty. In the early morning her skin was somehow clearer, more delicate and white. Sometimes I would wake before her and watch her sleep, the small wrinkles on the edges of her eyes softened by sleep's iron. With her breathy voice, reaching my ears like the first light of day, she'd say, go back to sleep. She'd lay her head against my chest and sweetly sigh and drape her arm over me. I never wanted to get out of bed. I never wanted the day to come any closer. I wanted us to stay suspended in those quiet white sheet moments forever.
Monday would inevitably tear us from our lazy lover's haze. At night, after work, I'd return home and lie in bed. I'd smell her on my pillows and on my sheets. A strand of her hair would find me like a shower drain and rising water thoughts of her would gather at my feet. I'd drown in dreams of her. Many times I'd wake and hear her say, go back to sleep; especially when she wasn't there.
Somehow I knew I wouldn't keep her. She wouldn't be kept. Maybe she would. I lied in bed.
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