He awakens in the dark again,
curiosity about the time stronger
than the weight of yesterday
upon his eyelids. But it’s the weight
of all his yesterdays upon his hands,
when he reaches for his watch,
that tells him how late it really is.
With an eye-opening pop, the tendons
of his thumb and fingers catch and
break loose with each knuckle’s bend.
Its 4:40 AM, too early to rise and,
as he once again grasps the cruel truth,
too late to seize the day as he once did.
With a shrug and a roll, he touches
her warm skin. His fingertips still
sense the pebbled goose-bump mountains
he never needed an iron grip to traverse.
With a contented grin, he draws the shades
upon his eyes, soon dozing again,
the memory of all those yesterdays
like gossamer in his hands.