I miss the prickling of bricks under my back

Scratching the backside of my legs

Since last summer I found solace in softness

Rather than rough freezing clay

Sprawled out in lazy morning sunshine

Quiet, rhythmic huffs of drowsy breathing

There haven't been many birds singing lately

Though I doubt anyone has noticed

Twisted blankets tangled in obscure manners

This time I can see myself in the light

And I can see you on the verge of a snore

Like my cat rolling on the floor in a square of sunbeams

You stretch across the carpet floor

Hands bumping into Carlos' favourite green hat

Except he doesn't wear it anymore

He uses the hat to collect the coins buried in the sidewalks

Your knee bumping into the closet door

It refuses to close no matter how many times I shut it

But the collision hardly stirs you

My once fluffy pillows regain their plush at your command

This morning they refuse to deflate under my head

Blue plaid sleeves lose their scratchy texture after the sun rises

Pearly buttons become smooth under my thumb

Beneath the warm morning sun, our hands are softer—gentler in the name of human nature.