By Ravi Prakash
A little cold breeze blowing in through the window he left open to wake her up, out of her sweet good night sleep.
She, mad about the morning, mad about him again for letting the breeze in, buried herself into the blanket, tight and deep.
More mad as her sleep flew away, with eyes still closed, she sends out her hand on his side of the bed for a little sweep.
And when she couldn't get hold of his morning warm chest, his warm neck to hide under, she would take a quick peep.
Straight out of bed, warm and delicate, she would walk into the kitchen to him, to lean against him still half asleep.
Crooked and furious around the rest of the world, she would cling around his waist to be lazy, brittle and to be weak.
He, who smells like a warm cup of coffee every morning, would wrap himself around her knowing that's what she seek.
A long warm hug, an even longer kiss to wish her a good morning, he would wipe his coffee stained fingers over her cheek.
Giggles around and some music for them to sway at breakfast, he promised her the winters a little bit cold but never bleak.
That’s my love