Shedding clothes
in the grey of winter
brings no warmth—
chills run through the skin,
making the body shiver
and passion
wither.
But summer—
summer carries the earthiness
and salty taste
of sweating bodies
sprawled heavy
across white linen sheets,
while a ceiling fan
whirs lazily above,
repeating its steady hymn—
make love,
make love.
The train pulled away,
carrying you in its belly
and belching black smoke,
leaving behind a throng
jostling on the platform.
I knew
it was the last time
I would ever see you.
Standing there, I hoped
that for a few miles
you might look out the window—
watching poles and trees zip by—
and trace my name
on the dirty glass
with a twinge of sadness.
A small gift
to validate my own.
It is awkward to be suspended in the unfamiliar grammar of a strange bed, trying to read the rhythm of a house that is not my own.
It is morning, and I am suspended in the unfamiliar terrain of a strange bed, trying to read the rhythm of a house that is not my own.
Above me, a ceiling fan lazily traces circles in the shadows. Through the slatted blinds, the first silver hints of dawn begin to filter in. I am wide awake.
Next to me, J. remains lost in some distant dreamworld; a late sleeper, she will not return to the surface for at least another hour. She is rarely visited by the quiet conundrum that finds me now—this peculiar paralysis that arrives on the very first dawn of a stay in a friend's home.
In these suspended minutes, lying still beneath the sheets, I feel less like a guest and more like an intruder. I am gripped by a sudden, irrational certainty that if I rise and move, I will desecrate a sacred silence. It feels as though the objects around me—the heavy armchairs, the framed photos, the quiet floorboards—are accustomed to sleeping late, and my presence might startle them awake.
Before we retired last night, our host traced the geography of the kitchen for us, pointing out the tea, the coffee, the milk. When they asked of my morning habits and learned I am an early riser, they offered an easy benediction: “Make yourself entirely at home. Sit anywhere, do whatever you like. You won’t bother a soul.”
And I, wrapped in the easy confidence of the evening, promised I would.
But here, in the cold clarity of dawn, my evening proclamations lose their weight. Perhaps they were never anchored to begin with. Perhaps they were merely the perfunctory architecture of social grace—a courteous tête-à-tête spoken without the scaffolding of real conviction.
To step out into the hallway now feels like trespassing on the very soul of the house. I am heavy with the awareness that I do not yet belong to this space. I can almost feel the inanimate things watching me with quiet, collective curiosity, wondering who this interloper is, disturbing their peace before the day has properly begun.
A strange inversion happens when the roles are reversed.
When we are the hosts, and I am the one who wakes before our guests, my morning is spent on a gentle vigil. I find myself listening for the small stirrings of their waking, eager to ease their transition into a brand-new day. I know too well the awkwardness of navigating a new terrain, and I want to shield them from it.
On those mornings, I will make intentional, domestic noises. A soft cough, the deliberate click of a door being opened, the distinct, metallic rattle of a kettle being placed on the burner. These are not disturbances; they are acoustic flares. They are acoustic beacons sent out into the quiet hallway to let them know that someone is already awake, that the coast is clear, and that they do not have to map this strange territory entirely alone. I want to meet them at the threshold with a hot cup of coffee or tea, offering a familiar ritual to anchor a day waiting to be lived.
I know how this story ends. After a few more visits, or perhaps just a few more nights under this roof, the tension will dissolve. I will grow accustomed to the landscape, the geometry of the hallways, and the unique vocabulary of this house’s morning rituals.
But until that familiarity arrives, I choose to stay exactly where I am. I lie patiently in the dim light, listening to the house breathe, waiting for the first authentic sign that my hosts are awake—and that it is finally safe to step into the day.
Ciao, and thanks for reading.