Morning Ritual
by Alyssa K.

'Is she coming today?'

As the words leave the sanctuary of my lips I immediately regret them. I watch as the lean muscles in his alabaster back tense, the ends of his hair brushing against his angled shoulders. A butterfly effect. He says nothing, but in the silence I can almost taste his passion's blood raging through his veins. I want to touch him, but he never looks at me afterward. He doesn't like being reminded, especially now.

'Go ahead.'

My voice is muffled into his soft down pillow. It smells like him. He doesn't turn to me as he sits up and reaches over to the bedside table to pick up a pack of cigarettes. I raise my dark head to watch the sleek tendons in his back and arms contort, entranced {yet again}. The white sheet twists around his slim waist. I can see the goose bumps raised from the cold of his room. Mornings are always cold.

He takes a long drag of his cigarette. I lay on my side, transfixed at the smooth of his wrists and fingers, in a dream of morbid beauty that even I didn't understand. The smell of the cigarette smoke reminds me of my father's tweed jacket. I would press my lips against it, praying that the death would seep into me instead. Maybe then would daddy quit smoking. I never told the figure before me that my father died of lung cancer two years ago.

Shaking away my thoughts, I concentrate on the constellations freckling his upper back, mentally playing connect-the-dots and biting down on the urge to trace them with my fingers. No, afterwards, I never get to touch. We had settled that a long time ago.

Last night is just a dream.
Tonight will be reality.
Tomorrow it will be deja vu, a reoccurring nightmare disguised in velvet and as passion.

A heartless passion.
He doesn't love me.
I know.

I fell in love with a boy who was already in love with someone else. An unrequited love. Even to this day, I think it was his eyes. eyes that I can't even see in the moonlight. sad eyes, and foolishly I thought I had the healing touch. {But angels like him don't belong in the night.}

The sharp knocks on his door jar us both from our thoughts. For the first time since the beginning he turns to look at me, and I lay stunned because this is the only time I have seen him in the yawning daylight. The seeping rays of the sun are goldenrod contrast against the onyx of his hair. His milk skin is flavored with a healthy pinkened glow of sugar cubes. My eyes caress the image of his lips and suddenly I am overwhelmed with the want of just one morning kiss.

'It's her.'

His husky voice breaks me out of my almost ecstatic reverie. He turns away again, reaching for his pair of white drawstring pants. I have to bite down on my lip to prevent myself from telling him to stop. Just for a few more seconds do I want to see you in the morning light.

'It's always her.'

Even I flinch at the acceptance lingering in my voice. He gives me a tiny nod, slipping on his clothing. The knocking has ceased. I arise from the bed; I had been dressed hours ago. He walks over to his cell phone and as if on cue, it begins to vibrate. It almost seems to seep into the very marrow of my bones.

I watch as he answers, an unconscious smile slipping unto the delicate planes of his face. His hand comes up to hide away the rare smile. I warm inside; blessed to witness such delight from him; even if it was for a few seconds. Sometimes I'm glad she comes. I can watch him smile, even if it is through the crack of a door or behind a veil. He only smiles for her. It wouldn't matter anyway; i can't see it even in the moonlight.

'Yeah, I'm awake. I'll go open the door right now.'

In midst of this, I almost think he has forgotten me, but he stops in his tracks to turn his head slightly toward my direction. {usually in the mornings I leave as he sleeps turned away from me. This must be strange for him}Locks of hair fall over his eyes. He looks like an angel.

"You know what to do."

I nod, turning away from him. We had rehearsed this many times before. The faint scent of Aqua Di Gio fills the room. My purse sits neatly on his computer chair, a vibrant pink against the stark black. As if it didn’t belong there.

"She's going to know," I say, looking over my shoulder to him. I fold the random discarded clothes around me. Funny, we would be the picture;perfect scene of a couple in love. Except he's in love with someone else. He sets the cologne bottle down, grimacing.

"Can you still smell the smoke?"

"No. But she's going to know."

The underlying meaning lies thick in the air between us. Our secret. My eyes catch his obsidian stare. He is the first to break away. He doesn't dare look at me, but I know tears are threatening to revolt against his pride. All I wanted to do was heal you.

"You know you can stop it whenever, right?"

His voice is the softest that I've ever heard from him. But you aren't a drug. I wish you were. So maybe that way, I could have a chance of quitting you.

"I know. Go to her."

I don't have to speak to him twice. His steps are light, and he doesn't look at me as he leaves. I'm glad he doesn't. The way the morning light... I would have begged. I am let in the room with only the ancient smell of smoke to comfort me. In the silence I listen to their voices, leaning my ear against the cool of his wall. My breath is heavy in my chest. My heart flutters violently, as if butterflies weren't only in your tummy. They're tearing up my insides with their wings.

I wait until I hear his front door close, his husky laugh still singing in the air. Counting to 500, I go to grab my purse. The strap is soft against my wrist.

I wonder what they are going to do today.

I shake away my thoughts, looking toward his unmade bed. My hand smoothes over the silken surface; mind delirious with memories. It feels foreign to my fingertips.

That's because he isn't yours.

In the morning he isn't.