Pre-Breakfast Ritual

The afternoons I spent trudging towards the bus stop,
drenched,
lamenting going home
are sepia-colored dreams
I reluctantly put aside
when I wake to find her
snoring,
her back to me,
sealed in my comforter.
The phlegm is a dull brown streak
as I rinse it down my sink,
along with the last vestiges of sleep
from my face.
Same pants.
Same shoes.
Different shirt.
My morning ritual lacks variety.
I shower mostly out of necessity:
She makes me feel dirty the morning after.