The Morning Desert

the morning mouth smacks
--the ones you made on the verge of waking up--
filled the air as I waited
and waited
for eyes to open, thoughts to return, and limbs to shift in-between sheets that
smelled of our cigarette conversations the night before

sometimes I would wait
and wait
down the street on the couches where I would bury myself
in theory and fill my tummy with yogurt, granola, fruit
and coffee until you phoned to say “come home”

other days I would enter the circle
and melt into your family’s gift to me
while I waited
and waited
for your dreams, or residue high/hangover to subside
so I could crawl in and claw (lightly)
the places on your back that only a mother
or lover are allowed to touch

now,
a cat's collar bell rings outside my window
to announce a new day but I wait
and wait
for the moment you decide to re-member me, though
the first voice over obscured lines
compares little to the ocean of absorption I swam in,
thanks to our circadian rhythms of old