Intrusion

I am not there in the morning. 

I am not there in the awakening, the blurry move towards tile and plumbing and the cold hand turning a dial to warm. 

I am not there to hand you soap. A lotion. A lather. A razor pulled cautiously across skin. Across a thigh. 

I am not there in the lathering. In the squeezing of remnants of a conditioner bottle into a palm. Into an oil that may moisturize. The scents looming in a slight fog. 

I don't see towels. I don't see the toweling and I'm not there to give you two because you need one for your hair.  

I'm not there for the slip into panties or thongs and bras and camisoles. I'm not there for the naked and the nude. 

I'm not there to plug in a hair dryer. I'm not there to pull open a drawer and look for mascara. Look for blush. Look for eyeliner. Look for mousse, gel or spray. I'm not there to worry a stray hair, worry a lone eyebrow. I'm not there to curiously gaze. 

But what if I was there?  What if I could see you assemble yourself in a morning?  

I honestly think you'd be stopped at the towel. Before you got prepared. At your skin-glistening vulnerability. At your most natural look. 

Au natural. 

And likely your most beautiful. In the stark naked moments of my invasion. My intrusion.  And my hope that all you would see, in the humid fog of a room, would be my eyes catching yours like a mirror catches steam...clinging, beading and holding onto the sweet visage of your most perfect and reflective gaze back into mine.