Waking up one morning, to find you still asleep.

Your leg
    should be rather annoying to me in its unawareness;
sprawled haphazard across this bed, using well
more than the allotted half.
(Queensized; as if Queens snore!)

I can't find it annoying though,
    perhaps
your legs twitching is a artifact of dream-state
that later you'll tell me over coffee,
or tea,
or some brisk drink (it doesn't matter) to stave off the cold
of another day in Chicago.

The sun hasn't risen yet, though,
and your dream is still going,
kicking me in your sleep like a madwomen.
I don't know where you're running.
I don't know where you're running.

I just hope that you'll find your way back to me,
before the dawn.