pupils=universe

Some mornings you will find me turned toward you–my nose barely touching yours, my chin tilted upward–enjoying your sleep. You curl fetal, a small animal (chipmunk or flying squirrel) as it clings to its mother (pseudo-goosedown pillow with blue piping). I trace your temple; you whimper. First melon-tinged light sneaks past the blind slats as you squint one reluctant eye open–a gold-flecked iris in bloom. Pupils unfurl like clenched buds bringing my day break. I breakfast beneath your vast lashes. And, when dawn’s light is just so, I understand the big bang theory, your pupils–my universe perpetually expanding.

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