Sun King

Here comes the Sun King
or at least the alarm usually,
but today I wake to hugs,
to your face buried in my neck.

Mornings are still cold here
sliding into black jeans,
never quite warm enough
for less than a sweatshirt
and chilly fingertips.

I think your best smile
is that one over coffee,
handing me the mug
and that careless
here we go again smile,
warm as thick porcelain
and the steam on my face.