there’s that haze again – the fog brought on by dreamless sleep. no longer was it a concept to him, a good night’s rest, the gentle lull of the in-between – of reality & the black.
yet he was not one to rise with the sun. refreshed, he was, though the living room is simply too bright, & he finds himself shielding his eyes from the morning rays
too bright. too early. too cold, for he has half the mind to go back to sleep, to drift back into that sweet oblivion, to stay with him. but alas! time is demanding, & his client was no better. forced to deliver his work personally ; a deadline to be met ( ‘ no later than 6:30, ‘ she said, ‘ otherwise i’ll cut your pay ‘ ) & so he was forced to rise an hour earlier.
the walk to the kitchen takes too long, though it probably doesn’t help he’s walking as fast as frozen molasses. yet what greets him as he reaches for the coffee pot is a note. purple. it’s stuck to the glass.
dear my sun & stars: i love you!
it’s enough to wake him up just a bit. he doesn’t remember writing this the night before. he stares at it, perplexed, though his fingers curl around the edge and he sticks it to the counter top. & that’s when it dawns on him. ah, elliott. he had written this. he always left little notes like these whenever he could.
it’s … cute. but don’t tell him he said that. there’s a sheepish smile playing at his lips, & yes, he’s heard him say those three words before … countless times, honestly, but it does something to his heart. it leaves him breathless?
he continues with his morning routine, but when he opens the silverware drawer he finds another one. blue this time.
who is as beautiful as the morning sunrise?
i don’t know. who? he thinks, & it elicits a chuckle. he doesn’t find the last note until he’s finished with his coffee and he’s finally ready to leave. a note on the shoes he had left out the night before. white.
– & another one. it’s on the door this time, a farewell, a reminder – something to get him through the day. pink
you are absolutely gorgeous!
it lifts his confidence, that black ink, & he has half the mind to take this particular note with him. not that he threw any of elliott’s notes away, mind you. rather he saved them for safekeeping, tucked away from the elements in one of his personal journals. it makes him smile ; fills him with strength when he’s at his lowest point, or when he wants be spoiled silly by those compliments. blessings, more like.
there’s that smile again, & slender fingers pull his note away from the door. still too cold – the surface of the door, that is – & he’s probably running late at this point. yet he can’t help but stop, stare at the curled corners of the note, the little hearts that decorate the text. it’s enough to leave him smiling, & he finds he’s not so tired anymore.
… maybe mornings weren’t so bad after all. not with him around, at least.
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