When there is no call to wake up

It was a Monday of sorts. Unformed completely. A little bit of the Sunday borrowed, reluctant to now part.

He wakes early everyday.

There was a time I used to rush to wake with him, my sleep trying to catch up with his. Then I gave up- I give up very easily. I wake to turn when he gets off the bed. I smile at his non seeing back. Its difficult even in hazy mornings to see how easy it is for him to walk away; no turns, no fond looks, no tender eyes.

I curl up the other way, the eternal companion of a pillow always on the other side; cold, pummeled hard and yet waiting.

I don't know why I do this. I might as well wake up.

But there are some days. After he walks around the frozen house, reads all the news that has already been made, puts the packet of milk on the kitchen counter and doesn't know what else to do while it thaws, that he comes back to me. Not exactly me. I have to work to not ruffle his ego and my sense of misplaced importance.

My mind is like an unfinished book; read and unread. By me even. Especially.

He walks over to the bed and tries climb into the blanket that is tightly wrapped around me. Its always a fight with me, even when I am pretending to sleep. I let him in or he lets himself in.

We both want to.

And then we both wake up.