Would I be happy with breakfast with you at six o’clock? Just picture one of those blue mornings: I will be opening and closing my hands because when I am tired it is hard to make a fist, and after grabbing things, picking things up. Here are our clothes. Here are our lives shed and lost around us. At the window I will hug my knees then have a glass of something, and listen to a something-song that leaves me in-between, stirring with a teaspoon, stirring T.S. Eliot (Let me be a mergirl and you a merboy. If only we could sing. I don't want to drown anymore.), poetry into my milk if it be milk, stirring memories I've had but I don't remember anymore, and have forever if time welcomes romantics, and will have...Here you are. Why do I want so bad to have breakfast with you? Before this sacrament, with the little things and the cosmic things wrapped up in the bed sheets, in our hair, mine against your face, we will wake up together. We will fall asleep together. “Can you breathe?” I will ask. I will take a photograph of you and you will take a photograph of me whenever. What about now? The sun will yawn like a child and I will see my skin blemished and tired in the places I try to hide with clothing. Although it is nothing new, someone once said clothing is the closest thing to one's skin, the most intimate. We will wear each other, before breakfast and everything that follows after it. I like to think that, wearing your arm-sleeve against my stomach; you wearing my blemishes on your lips. Nothing will fit right, but it's fine. It's so, so fine. Everything. Only when we're older may we wear each other fluent and complacent; your rough fingertips may be my heels and my soft limbs may be your shoulders; but we promised to never grow up.