In the silence of the morning his long arms stretch up

Towards the grey space, loosening, stretching, 

And I watch the muscles in his shoulders rise and fall.

Something about him seems sanctified--I feel prohibited

From reaching out to touch him--and with a yawn, 

He struggles up out of warmth and soft quiet.

On the edge of the bed, feet flat against the chill floor,

His spine curves out toward me, all tense muscles

And tired stacks of bone. I could press the stress out

But I don't, and after a heartbeat, the length of him is upright,

Breaking the illusion that we might have stayed, here, together.