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Saturday Morning

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  It’s five in the morning and you’ve woken up, another nightmare from the time you had a spike through your chest. I know because you shot up in bed screaming and crying, clutching at the scraggly white scar you have there. You say it’s disgusting, ugly, a terrible thing, but I say it’s beautiful, if only because it’s a part of you. You, the most beautiful person I’ve ever met. I haven’t lived as long as most, but I’ve been on this earth long enough to know that you’re the best one of us. 

 

  It’s five thirty a.m. and you can’t sleep, I know because I can’t either. I’m holding you, listening to your heart beat, but I can’t think of anything other than the feeling of your blood on my hands. I still sometimes see it in the cracks of my glasses, despite the fact that the ones that sit on my face are new and don’t even have a scratch. You’d kill me if I messed them up, nagging about how expensive they are. I love the way your brow furrows when you’re annoyed at me, I can’t help but to find it precious. I can’t help but love every last thing about you. I can feel you running your fingers over your scars, your chest and cheek. You get up out of the bed, throw back the silken covers you insisted on because they’re more comfortable. I worry about you, not because you’re fragile, but because you panic. 

 

It’s five forty five on a Saturday and you’re sipping coffee in the kitchen, trying to wake yourself up. You have goosebumps, and your coffee cup trembles. The clean tile floor is cold under my feet, but I can’t leave you by yourself. We don’t talk, I just pour myself coffee in a mug that matches yours and pass you the sugar because you always forget to put enough in. You smile softly and I count that as a win, smiles are a rarity when you’re like this. Putting some whole grain bread in the toaster, I go sit at the island and pat the seat next to me. The heater broke yesterday, and it’s cold tonight in LA. I pretend you’re shivering because it’s chilly.

 

It’s six and it’s cold, yet we’re munching on toast together, though you’re really just nibbling at it. You look fine, minus the dark circles under your eyes and that thousand yard stare of yours. I wrap my arm around your shoulder and kiss the top of your head, and my heart hurts when I hear the sharp inhale that always foretells tears. I scoot closer and drag you onto my lap, and my shoulder is damp sooner than expected. I simply hold you, like you’re my everything. In this moment, I really am holding my entire world in my hands. I whisper I love you, Eddie. So much, so fucking much, and you whisper it back. I love you, I love you, I love you.

 

It’s ten in the morning and we’re waking up for the second time under soft silk sheets, all tangled up in each other. I kiss you and you wrinkle your nose at my morning breath. I simply exhale in your face as forcefully as possible and let out a belly laugh when you yell at me for being absolutely fucking disgusting . But you love me, so it’s okay. We go to the kitchen and putter around. I pour us more coffee in matching mugs and pass you the sugar again. Your hands are steady when you take it from me. You bring out the yogurt for you, milk and cereal for me. I pick up the newspaper and hand it to you. We sit at the island, and I look at us for just a moment. You sit reading your newspaper and slowly eating your yogurt, and I steal the comic strips from you while I munch on my cereal. It’s ten in the morning on a cold Saturday, and everything is just perfect.