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Early-Morning Beauty

Short story By: Josephine Ann
Other


It is a cool December morning in warm sheets that makes you love the way you are.


Submitted:Dec 22, 2007    Reads: 81    Comments: 0    Likes: 1   


I want to write in a way that is warm. I want the feel of my comforter on a cool December morning to engulf you like it does me, and I want you to curl up like I do and feel caught up in it all. I want the way the light throws shadows on the wall in the early mornings to reach you, but there is nothing I could write or paint or sing that could make you live inside my skin.

I try anyway.

I lay in bed and I think about my life, right at this moment. It occurs to me that it is the deaths we make to ourselves that let us really live; it is the things we let go of that leave our hands free to recieve something else. My life is so crazywonderfulbeautiful even with all of the sadness it holds. I bury my face in the dark green pillowcase, pull the brown comforter up to my chin, and smile. My newly-short hair is curled up into crazy ringlets, sticking up and down and out, and I feel small and cute and young. More than anything, I am happy, because life is so beautiful I don't know how I couldn't be.

The vague scent of my perfume is on my pillow, mixed with my shampoo and lotion, and I imagine I probably smell like this all the time- this medly of texture and smell. I imagine I taste something like this, and I think about the man who can maybe tell me one day if that's true or not. The left side of the bed is empty, just the way it's been for every other morning, and I extend my leg back to feel the coolness of the untouched sheets. I let my mind wander to the future- to the things I want and the things I need, to the hopes and the fears- and I let myself go. I let myself dream, because at heart I'm only just a dreamer.

Andy McKee plays in the background. "Rylynn" starts, and I remember a boy who once told me that this song reminded me of him. I think about where he is and how he hurts and the ways we've grown apart, and I say a prayer because I know I can't do anything else. The red numbers on my clock progress as the light seeps in through my blinds, but I am warm and content in my small space of world. And I imagine I look happy and I imagine I am beautiful, and I imagine that my eyes are smiling and my lips are soft and I am comfortable inside my own skin. I am warm and inviting and content to be exactly who I am- and that is enough. I let the morning slip easily through my fingrs, and I am complete.





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