Friday

We wake before the house is warm
bare feet in cool sand.
Your hand finding mine
without looking.
The tide moves slow across the shore.
No rush.
No noise.
Just skin and sun.
Your breath
will fill the room
with mine.
Family voices somewhere behind us —
plates clinking,
doors closing —
but we drift slightly apart,
into something only ours.
Night leans in, soft and low.
Time loosens
in your arms.
I count the hours till Friday comes.