I was recently reminded how much I used to look forward to our time together. Before the world got busy and the birds considered their first flight of the day, it was with you that I used to stretch and run.
In that short time between dreaming and reality I was a secretive audience member in the streets and parks. As I moved silently past windows and doors I liked to think about the families inside. Children shuffling about in pajamas, mother’s packing lunch boxes, men shaving in front of mirrors, couples grasping the last moments in bed together.
Runners hitting the pavement silently, my fingers tucked in to the lengths of my sleeves. My hair and ears would be covered in a beanie and steam escaped from my mouth as I moved through the cold morning. It was then I felt most at peace, comforted by the quiet of my neighbourhood and the pounding inside my chest. It was then, with you, that I glimpsed hidden parts of myself.
As I hit the centre of town the cafes would be opening, the coffee machines ready to pry open the eyes of the weary. I’d enter an espresso bar and feel a sudden shock. Our time together was over and I was being hurled in to the hustle of a new day. Trucks roaring down the road, kids screaming, electronic beeps on a cash register all reminding me of the work waiting for me in the office. I’d stretch my legs, drink my coffee then leave behind the empty cup. I’d finish the rest of my journey – this time my shoes slapping the pavement in protest.
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6am and I have never been friends. I’m only just starting to to come to terms with 10am.