Morning mutes

I remember when you said from the far side of the bed
it felt like it set your fingertips on fire every time that we held hands.
You always hid your head beneath a winter's-worth of blankets
When you admitted to your thoughts
So hesitant, so slow, and short of breath.
As if both born mute we choose to pen our thoughts instead:
A written record of the inside of our heads.

And I am young.
And I'm alive.
And I will not apologize.

Coming-to at noon while skipping work or classes
To catch the sunlight as it caught each strand of our eyelashes.
And it was hard to feel much guilt and even harder not to shake,
when I would wake to our alarms paired with the stillness of your sleeping face.
Motionless mornings spanned out into quiet afternoons,
Both unaware and without care of the world outside our rooms.

And I am young.
And I'm alive.
And I will not apologize, not for what feels right.

We're keeping quiet because we'd hate to be found out.
My mind's a riot alive with hope and with a rising doubt.
There is a place for all this fear,
Although there's no spare room in my bed.
It's built for two, just me and you,
Leaving no room for our anxiety, or fear, or for any of our regret.
And I just don't feel that sorry for this yet
And I won't anytime too soon I'll bet.