Wake up,
her voice dives into my dream
of twirling bananas and jelly creme matchbox cars
her hand - marred and gentler than expected
pushes my shoulder
can't believe you can sleep so long
I know, I burrow deeper into the yellow sheets
Egyptian cotton, 150 count thread
I can hear the exasperation in her voice
baiting me with something like annoyance, perhaps love
I close my eyes and stare at my red eyelids
because the morning sunlight's streaming through
and I can smell the grocery-store hyacinth
in a little vase by the bedside I'd set down last night

Wake up,
oh skin slightly darker than mine,
I can feel her dampness, the smell of shower gel
something I can never quite place - her.
Early Sunday morning, I'm tempted,
to relinquish my tight grip on this pillow and rise
to the pantry of cereal - rice chex and granola bars
but not yet, I pull the covers tighter
She, not amused, pulls them off in a tumble to the white floor -
I don't like to wear shirts to bed.

Wake up,
gasp, gentle
I shiver at the sudden coolness on my skin
her hand above the arch of my back, the dark ink
I know those hands as if they were my own,
their scars, their musclature
she traces down my back and I think only of her and her honest eyes
the casual way she's slung herself over me
her lips on my neck, my wrists twisting, coming to rest on her skin
on her arms, the powerful sinew, she laughs
catching me awake, I can't resist
I turn and press my lips to her collarbone
and feel them curve into a
smile