He is sweet and still in his sleep.
I know his body — his arms, his legs — the honest planes of his face. I watch him breathe in and out, hear its familiar sound, the rise and fall of his filling lungs. Know the slight cock of knee to the side; can recall its pressure against my back in the middle of the night.
Every bit of him.
The neck, the shoulders, the feet — all covered by blankets. He stays up longer than I do, sleeps in later. His slightly open mouth — those pink, dry lips. The red hair mussed and matted. His cheeks pressed with lines I cannot stop reading.
I suppose I have twice the memories.
I suppose I don’t mind.