Is Well

It rains. You wake early, too early, and listen to it smatter against the upstairs balcony. Without glasses, all you see out the window is shades of gray across two boroughs. He says your name in his sleep, while you close your eyes and listen to breaths in tandem, drift in and out of dreams that do not linger.

It is everything and nothing at once. I sleep until the rain passes, but that isn't the part that matters.