Mornings are glorious. Mornings are romantic. The sun is just waking up, too. You yawn together, stretch together. You blink together, you through tired eyes and the sun through your curtains. You push those curtains aside, but the sun no longer blinks with you, instead staring at you like a wide eye. Your limbs crack and you shuffle-walk to brush the night out of your mouth. You’re groggy, maybe grumpy. But you open the window and it’s dumb how beautiful it is. There’s a breeze carrying the beach towards you, thick and full of salt and coconut sunscreen. Birds are chirping and flying close to your apartment window. You go to the kitchen, careless in your half-nakedness (it’s too hot now to wear pants to bed). You pour that fast black liquid and drink it straight, no sugar coating. You go to your balcony, the sun no longer a twinned friend but a torrid fiend. You take a seat, scratching a fingernail through the soft, weather worn table and think, I’m lucky to live in California, as you squint helplessly at the horizon, which shimmers in a mirage of morning heat and asphalt. The city that always sleeps. The streets are quiet and you like that. Because this serenity is worth an early rise.

You sit back and bask. Morning glory, morning glow.

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