The Opposite of Twilight

Shards of sunlight filter through the sweetly fragranced orange jasmine before powering through the flyscreened window, creating a living mural on the wall behind the bed. I love this time of the morning.

One of those in-between times when the dawn chorus has settled and before the sporadic cacophony of cicadas assaults the ear. It's the opposite of twilight, golden and lackadaisical.

He's sleeping there, almost naked swathed in little more than a classic fold of Egyptian cotton. I have a fetish for fine linen and he perfectly decorates my blank canvas, nestled closely between the crumples in relaxed carelessness.

He remains oblivious to my presence as I stare at his perfect form and wonder at thi perfect creation. A right arm folded at the elbow, his open hand invisible behind his head, lost amid a mass of cherubim curls. I love that silken, creamy skin on his smooth inner arm and trace the triangular form without touching, just close enough to imagine the macro of tiny hairs which sensually rise and fall through static emanating from my fingertip. I pause momentarily at his hairline and gently flick an errant curl from his brow. I should cut his hair, it's just a little too long but so soft, so lustrous, so tactile as it frames his sleeping face.

His right arm is lazily posed across a tanned and hairless chest that rises and falls with the whisper of the breeze and the slightly agitated rhythm of REM sleep. I love his hands, small and clean and manicured with so much unrealised potential in their dormant state.

I adore this time with him, this early morning glimmering glow of a time when he sleeps. Despite the hour it's balmy and tiny beads of perspiration form beneath his lower lashes perhaps owing to some nocturnal spice and this the only evidence of pre-slumber heat.

I move a little closer and can feel his warmth. I breathe in the musk of his beautiful skin. I prop myself up, hand on head, fingers opened and covered in dark cascading curls. I call it ‘bedhead’ but he doesn’t care. He never judges my looks. He is comfortable with my body, adores my breasts and my nakedness is barely noticed. He doesn’t object to morning breath or notice my changing shape. I am his life, he depends on me and I love his dependence. Everyone wants to be needed. He loves me truly, innocently and unconditionally. He's openly emotional and I with him. I wipe his tears and heal his wounds, he holds me close and rewards me with heart-wrenching smiles and sweet kisses. For now, we are inextricably entwined physically and emotionally.

I blow a zephyr kiss gently towards his pursed and sleeping lips until he twitches but he doesn’t wake. He'll rise soon enough and this halcyon moment will be lost. He'll fracture the calm with chatter and demands and the gossamer threads of this momentary serenity will break loose.

I draw imaginary along the line of his perfect eyebrows and trace his aquiline nose. I delicately colour his closed lids with invisible hue and draw a tender bow across his Cupid lips. I finger his perfect shell-like ears, squeezing lightly at the lobe . . enough to make him stir. He wakes sleepily and smiles . . . I profer a soft and quiet kiss and tickle his bare chest.

The opposite of twilight is now over, my baby boy is roused, the peace is interrupted. Gone now is that moment of moments, the day begins and he is no longer the subject of a mother's gaze, no longer quiet and cherub-like, asleep between the sheets.

Another hack attempt at the 10th Daughter of Memory. For far more competent and this time round, more 'sensual' efforts, go visit. They're good . .go on . . . they're really good!