It’s morning. One of those rainy Saturday mornings you wakeup with a blazing headache and wonder what happened the night before. The rain is running races down the window and my fan is moving in that slow steady pace, circling my head. Shutting my eyes, breathing deeply, losing my limbs in my sheets. Interpol is playing and I begin to mouth the words back to the singer. My voice cracks, the deep smoker’s throaty tone seems to surprise me. He’s breathing heavy against my neck. That breathing always made me nervous in earlier days, but now I’m not sure I could sleep without it. The soft curve of his jawline, his hair falling in his face, dusting his nose. And I catch myself, long before the crash. Catch myself as I realize I am staring. Realize that I can never make myself happy until I can let love go. Knowing I would never be the one in the pictures he’s painting behind his eyelids, but these Saturdays will always be mine.