7 a.m. Therapy

The curtains took care
of the obtrusive sunrise that crawled
to my window like a curious toddler.

This morning, you’re up early,
wearing your work shirt, still unbuttoned,
grinding coffee beans in the kitchen.
Then heading downstairs, looking for
something in the laundry basket.

Upstairs again,
I listen to your moves,
until your fingers brush my hair
muting everything else for me,
making me blush in my dreams.
The skin is marvelous,
covering and exposing us at once
like that.

I wake up as the sun
insists to be let in. Your voice
is a way of catharsis.
The scent of coffee is
the steamy form
of fluoxetine.