Have you ever woken up and been completely transported to the night before? Had mornings when your mind seems to have no time to warm itself up, to adjust to the light of morning?
You are an empty husk, dried out from sleep, your stomach scooped out and filled with memories you wish were more vivid, more true. Never mind that the moment itself wasn’t perfect. That was what you liked about it: that it was real, and not some fantasy you created to help yourself fall asleep.
This morning I woke up and realized that you were gone; before I could even open my eyes I was tracing the outline of where you stood just yesterday. I pick at the flaws in the fabric, concentrating on the mess you’d made, the fact that I was still angry at you from our fight that morning. That I was annoyed at you for not noticing that I was annoyed. That I hated you.
I know all this, but in the same way I know when I look out at the ocean that the earth is round: somewhere there is an end, but until then everything I see is simply blue, and perfect.