I awoke. The first lightings of day shone through the window. Our limbs were askew, as usual, within the confines of that soft, horrendously colored, nylon blanket. You weren't awake, so I stared blankly at the paint spots on your ceiling. They always caught my attention, those tiny grey specks -two inches from your wall, there from when your mother painted and didn't tape the area correctly. It was always on those kinds of mornings that I would feel as though I was caught in some scene from one of those transcendental movies. The ones where the main character has a moment where he just stands there and watches life pass him by with no feelings of remorse. It was always on those kinds of mornings that I would look at you as you slept, noting all of the simplest movements and twitches, trying to figure out what words were being formed when you moved your lips, talking in your sleep. It was always on those kinds of mornings that I would find myself reaching out to you, burrowing my way into that warm, accepting space between your chest and arm, and snuggling close, closing my eyes in an attempt to salvage any sleep left in my system. You always welcomed me there, in that tiny gap, as if there were some unspoken agreement, a concord, that that was where I belonged.