Mornings are the unripe heart of plum picked before its time of deep purple. The day is tumble-dry low and corrodes our window with mist. I move over to the ladder that propels our skyline mattress and slip to the floor. I fill the kettle with water from the fountain and watch its pad fume with embarrassment. Bubbles pop up one by one like crises. I find loose leaf under the foliage of your bed, golden in the light like the church’s marble, and circle the water through its toothy cotton pouch. In your hibernation, you turn towards me. When you wake up you will say you are ugly. I pinch the mesh pillow like you taught me. The last droplets fall into the mug, slow, like a priest uttering last rites. As I grab the teaspoon atop the microwave, you wish for a good morning. The honey usurps the metal valley and folds over and over in its chamomile bog. I present to you like the head of John the Baptist. Good morning, I say.