Waking up, your hair across my lips occurs to me like a random thought, like remembering the birthday of someone whose last name I’ve forgotten. It’s red, your hair, in this light; red that people call auburn, or ash-brown embers, or fiery chestnut. People have so many words for what I see as a color uniquely you, the way it trickles off brightly at your sideburns, the way it darkens underneath at your nape.
Never have I been so enthralled with the scent of a scalp in sleep, nor so drawn to touch and kiss you awake, as I am this moment. You feel me move and pull me by my hand so I am against, nearly over your back, watching your face. Sleep a little longer, your smile-lines say, then wake me up. Silently, I agree by kissing your hair, and I won’t resurface from dreams again for hours, until I feel your rough red cheek on my breast.
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