As I drift off to sleep, I turn
toward the window.
You’re still at my back, and only
an arm’s reach away.
But with my next cycle of sleep,
without any consciousness
or memory,
my legs are thrown over
yours. Sometimes I wake up
that way,
early in the morning.
My limbs strewn
carelessly,
the way I leave everything
on the kitchen table.
It’s a comfortable habit
that means
I’m home.
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