Long before the dog ever slept on my bed, Before I stopped making dishes like chili or stew in big batches on a Sunday and doled them out to last the week, Before I ever set bow to strings, Or re-set pen to paper, I never dreamt of you. Back then, the alarm clock woke me much later than 3:30 a.m., the hour when I find you now-- in my thoughts, in my head, but not, as these nocturnal scripts deceive me, in my bed. These are days and nights of internal conflict, of war at home: stomach vs. heart, and the victor, though empty of spoils, remains at least unbroken. Now, it is chili and stew again. Hearty meals. And when her long, slender form climbs in beside me at night, We are warm together. She rests easy now, atop the blankets. With permission.