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.