I turn over in bed, brush against your warmth, and know it is you, half-asleep, without thought.
Anyone else here previously was nothing more than  not you yet.

Are we our truest selves to each other here, unconscious and rid of complication?
Outside there are birds already, making themselves findable to each other in the dark.
I rest well in the crook of your arm.
We are both damp with sleep-sweat.
Outside is a further place than I will let into my mind;
there are still three hours before I will think about the world.