Your alarm clock goes off at 6 am every Monday through Friday
and every Monday through Friday I will groggily reach over
you to turn it off. You’ll mumble something about how you’re
sick of waking up with my chest in your face, and I’ll make
some inappropriate comment back, because that’s just how we work.
You will bury your face back into the pillow and I’ll get up,
throw on your old beat up North Face jacket, and for half a second,
I’ll consider calling us both in sick.
You’re just a love poem that I’ll never get right, but I’ll never stop trying to write.
Poet in the Streets 