Morning Compromise

If you had loved me like you loved long showers, maybe I could have stayed.

If there’d been any indication that I meant more to you than a hot breakfast, perhaps you’d still wake up to pancakes.

I hated the smell of mornings, of bacon, of the stuffy air because you always closed my windows when I fell asleep.

I hated that you’d wipe the steam off the mirror, erasing¬†every note I ever left.

If you had only paid attention, the world might not have cared enough to pull me away.

If you had given me half the attention that you gave to your shaving regimen, I would have smiled and stayed to kiss your scruffy cheek good morning.

I enjoyed watching as you get ready, laughing as you flinched like a child every time you put your contacts in.

I liked that you had a shower door instead of a curtain because as I watched you turn to the blurred shapes behind it, life felt like poetry.

If only you had watched me that way, stirring in bed as I washed off the remnants of that night’s escapades.

If only you had been willing to call in to work one time because you couldn’t resist me.

I hated that you could still resist me even in the soft morning light when I felt invincible.

I hated that you hurried me along because god forbid you take a shorter shower.

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