this glorious moment of stillness

A prose poem from September 20th...

My bed is most comforting during the exact moment I must rise from it, particularly on early fall mornings, when the days are still reasonably long and the air is warm enough for shorts but cold enough for blankets. There’s no tightness in my shoulders or kink in my neck. My legs slide together like the slick skin of a seal against blue cotton sheets, and thoughts from my subconscious have not yet permeated my conscious.

This glorious moment of stillness exists only on week days, when I must get up—when I long for nothing more than pulling the blankets closer and staying in my thoughtless state. Waking up on the weekend doesn’t have quite the same effect. Perhaps I’ve awoken later than I would have on a weekday, and the sun's in my eyes, and my back is sticky with sweat from the mid-morning heat, and my stomach’s grumbling, and guilt takes shape in my head as a drilling headache, saying—shouldn’t you be doing something productive?

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