I lie in bed, under the warmest duvet known to man on an otherwise nippy, pouring day, writing. The love of my life sleeps next to me, and my eyes too would shut any moment now. I lie here protesting against the last will and testament of mundane exhaustion. To think that I would find myself in a moment like this, that it will feel as if nothing is out of place, that this is how things truly are and should be continues to perplex me. That I am happy addles me and makes me afraid of dozing off lest I arise in a world different from this one. So, I must, at least, make a record of it.
As I look at her, taking the softest breaths possible, and letting them out even softer, it occurs to me that I would give her all the love I have to give, and not leave a drop in the barrel. And on the coattails of this thought comes another: how often do we not realise we are in our greatest days yet? But I have. I reckon I do.
And so, I continue to look. And then, I continue to look. And another minute passes. And the piece reaches its end. And the rain stops outside. And the world goes to sleep. And the dogs stop barking. And my eyes force themselves shut. And still, I continue looking.
And then, I fall asleep.