You stir, and pull my arms tighter around you, and inch back into me.
I am already awake, studying each hair on the back of your head.
You stir again, and whisper “what time is it?” to the pillow, or the gods, or me.
I am the one who answers, “almost eight, we have a little more time.”
You sigh, and pull me tighter still.
I press into you, my lips now on your neck, my nose now in your hair.
You relax, your breathing grows again heavy, and you slip back into unconsciousness.
We have a little more time.
We have only a little more time.