My Dream of Waking

When I wake I often have a head full of soft-boiled stories. In my bed there is a space, person-sized, towards my left arm. I like to drool and sputter out my dreams, I like a warm nude haze that listens, I like to hear in between kisses what drama unfurled while we slept. I like my arms full, I like twisted legs, I like my hips rocking to your song. I want to know your stories and your history so your mornings speak to me in layers. I want your hands and ideas of what my brain is up to. I want my sheets to know your name and wear your perfume. I want to introduce you to my stuffed animals. I want a lifetime of wakings, hairs on the pillows, nights counted in vulnerable throats, our skins slowly wrinkling to puzzle better together. Like a baby I want a blurred face for my waking, a slack lip, each bone familiar and murmuring against the light. I want your heartbeat for breakfast, your fears laid out on my shoulders, if you'd let me I'd swallow every tear like a seed. My bed knows you already, it moans for your weight, the blankets tossed and anxious, please tell it your dreams.