Jolted awake at 4:48 by the Messenger ding, 
my cheek unstuck from the pillow still damp 
and salty from my earlier efforts 
to drown out the cadence of your voice 
calling me baby, calling me at all hours of the night 
and the day and now at 4:48 in the morning. 

I’m rafting along the rapids of my own tears 
while you nonchalantly float somewhere 
in the vacuum of space between the people 
we are now and those we used to be together. 

I don’t know how to tell you about my date tomorrow, 
or maybe it’s that I’m saving this moment before dawn 
to stash under my tear-stained satin pillow 
and bring it to light when you no longer call.