Everything about this morning was sizing up, comparing, making fractions. Would you and Ira Glass together save every Sunday from grouchiness? How different would it be from a bed that we called our own rather than the best counterfeit we could muster (albeit a better one than the floor)? Have you ever put your hands in my hair when our heads are together and mixed the strands into a cocktail of bronze and red and brown? At the tips of my fingers, the calloused places had a nearly impossible time differentiating between whose was whose. Down lower, where my deep fingerprints soften, even with a yielding handfull, I knew where my straight, coarse fibers met your finer, curling ones. At one point I had a perfect camera-one, camera-two view of your mouth - your lips closed and pleased. I thought about how I couldn't even hear your breathing and how my nose already sounds like that of a grandfather, all weezy. How lucky I must've been to fall into position with such a perfect view from both sides of my 45 degrees. Maybe I'd never be so lucky again. Of course I had to mention you being gone. I couldn't help it. It seemed only fitting when placed in the context of my little secret morning math.