Tuesday mornings have always been the hardest.
I wake, tender from my bed, shaking sleep from my shoulders, eyes still heavy and half-closed.
I try to pretend I don’t think of you, that I don’t feel the cold sheets on your side of the bed, the absence of your shoes by the bedroom door. I try not to picture your wrinkled brow, face filled with dreams, those golden lashes, the soft curve of your lips, your arm leaning forward, tucked around my side so I’d have to untangle myself from you.
On Tuesday mornings, I imagine us, curled between blankets, close enough that both our noses and toes could touch.
If I could rewind, I’d rewrite you to memory, each birthmark, each freckle, each childhood scar.
A map I could trace, months later, when I’d feel completely lost.
Directions to find my way back home.