i wake up but keep my eyes closed—i don’t want to see
our faces—the mirror is on my side of the bed and
a Qur’an on His.
i feel His arm around me—little spoon, big spoon—and
i gently move His arm and slide out of bed quietly
tiptoeing out of the room, careful not to make a sound—
He doesn’t like being woken up.
i start preparing breakfast for Him—for us—but less for me and
i hear Him slam open the bedroom door while i’m washing dishes and
He comes up behind me to hug me and kiss me good morning and
i wince at the soreness in my wrists from yesterday.
He asks if i want to pray together and
of course i do.
He heads to the bathroom to wash up while i keep breakfast warm and
bite my lip to keep the tears in my eyes and
clean up the kitchen because i made such a mess and
try to forget the night before and
He’s ready to pray,
hair, face, beard dripping wet from making wudhu and
i wonder if His sins are really falling off with every water droplet
i pray they are not.