The familiarity of it.
I want to watch you dress in the morning. The shirts lined up in the wardrobe, blue on Thursdays since you were a child. Shaving at the sink bare-chested as the water turns foamy and you ask if I'd like a cappuccino. I dry your face with a towel then breathe the soapy smell of your jaw. The hairs at the base of your throat are curled up against moist skin.
Maybe a tie, maybe not, but the belt buckle is always on the fourth from the end. You walk around the house with your laces untied, a daring feat for a Monday. The left lace is a slightly darker brown than the right, the result of a mis-memory at the supermarket. Black, one sugar, I want to see you spill a little on the sports section of the paper. The news goes limp and you laugh and say something about seeing the other side. I sit with my tea, working my leg next to yours. Sun lights up curtains like sheets of snowflakes. The salt shaker is empty.
The tune you hum when you can't find your keys. The patting of pockets and chest, a scratch to the head reveals their place on the dresser. I want to wait until you stop at the mirror, flattening wayward hair with a dimple and a sigh. You fly around grabbing possessions for the day as I switch off the radio and sit on the couch arm. My lips wet, the door shuts, the room still shimmers with your meaning.