The feeling when you wake up late on a Saturday morning and everything is half-lit and warm and slow and the rain is falling softly on the skylight above you.
And then rolling over and unfurling your legs and stretching your arms above your head and arching your back underneath the heavy duvet, loving the feel of its weight on your body so much that you let out a little moan of pleasure as you shift beneath it, and there is the light struggling through the blind and the sound of the rain whispering above you so soft and rhythmic and soothing and you put your hand to the small of your back just to feel the curve of your spine and the gentle swell of your behind, just for the joy of the skin there, and the rain falls and you think it will rain all day but that is alright, because there is nowhere you need to go, and if you decide to walk by the sea later it will be quiet and unpeopled and the water will be still and it will be so fine, and you’ll turn your face up to the sky to feel the rain on your cheeks on your forehead on your nose and you’ll stick out your tongue and catch the raindrops in your mouth and your hair will dampen and stick to your wet face and you will be so beautiful and you’ll imagine a hand brushing a strand away from your face and those eyes and a kiss on your rain wet lips.
But right now here you are in bed rubbing your eyes and wondering how much of last night’s mascara is on your face and you move slowly because the inside of your head feels liquid and shifting, your brain feels like it might pool on one side if you move too quickly because you drank last night to forget for a few hours and to cool the fire in your belly and slow the blood in your head and quiet the bird in your aching heart. You move slow and try to ignore the low pain grumbling around the base of your skull and concentrate on the feel of the pillow against your face and the warmth of your breath against your arm and the sound of the rain falling and falling.
Just these things, these small things, are so good. Just being here at this moment, warm and soft and slow and aching and half-awake and listening to the rain.
So here I am.