It is five fifty-nine, morning light maneuvers through drawn blinds, an alarm shrill will disturb peaceful birdsongs any minute now, a house dog will soon beg for food, the roommate across the hallway will wrestle from brief hibernation for a quick shower, coffee will be brewed and the early edition dispersed over the breakfast table as the day bursts forth like any other. But in this last quiet she, wide awake, this woman I am coming to love, forms tight against my dead shape still clogged with restless haze fighting any conscious effort toward movement. Her lips pressed easy to my neck, legs twisting warmth into dawn's chill, skin faint with last night, exploring into the late hours beneath an electric glow just to be sure once again. And I wonder if this is the last time, the only time I will feel safe in her arms.