I wake up with the sunrise on the screened in terrace from the mountainside overlooking the river, I give a warm kiss to my love and she stirs.  She slowly opens her eyes, at their corners where the lines of time have gently began to appear. Her eyes draw her lips upwards as she smiles at me.  We sleep on a rolled out mattress, placed on top of a woven straw tatami. We tuck it away as soon as we finish making love and are ready to rise.  

I light the wood stove and begin to crack some eggs for our breakfast. She ambles down to the garden to pick some zucchini, tomatoes, and fresh herbs that we planted in the spring. I grind the freshly roasted coffee beans and place them in the stovetop espresso maker. The one relic I have carried with me since the dark times. The sourdough bread stored in an ochre painted box on the countertop was only baked yesterday, it still has a crispness, a softness. We decide to have a piece. Our impatience grows, she looks at me coyly, rips off a piece and dips it into a bowl of fresh homemade sheeps milk cheese. I touch her shoulder, the entirety of my being pangs a dull electric. 

The piney breeze coming in through the windows of our house underscore my revelry and bring to me the god breath. I don’t remember anything, I have no need, what I have been can not serve me here. I do not neglect, I do not distract, all the longing, the prognosticating, the shaping, witchery and misplaced gratitude that once ruled my world dissolve into never having been at all. 

I have all my fingers, all my toes, all my limbs, all my hearts, stomachs, and souls. I have hers too, and she has mine.   


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