early

It's half seven and I am asleep, curled on my side after a late bedtime. He nudges me awake, hands on my back, and I slither over into his arms, what's wrong?

Those worries you have before the day gets truly light are the worst, grey sadness, limbo of pre-action. We drift in and out of sleep until the room is brighter.

I wait and wait for the weekend where he won't leave on Sunday, where we won't hold these concerns (just others) between us in the stillness of the morning. Where we have all week (all life) and he won't wake so early, so sad.