I finally got the dream—
  the one with your laugh
  arriving before your face.

Woke smiling,
     then frowned just as wide
     when the door back to it

     remained locked.

So I did the ordinary—
   feet on cold floor,
   stretch until breath evens,

   coffee negotiating with the blinds.

Outside, the day rehearsed light.

Inside, the notes keep sounding
        with your name on them…

      chair creaks with a sigh,
  kettle whistles like a laugh.

No scores to check,
   no lists to win—
   just this pulse in the quiet

   that remembers your cadence.

I run because it steadies me,
  bend because it loosens what clings,
  sip because warmth learns patience—

  all of it a hallway to you.

Every morning writes the same line:
                           wake up,
                          want you.

Sometimes with a dream to point at,
    sometimes with nothing but air…

            but always the wanting,
            faithful as the chorus.

When the cup is half gone,
     I queue the message
     that lands on your morning—

     a small voice set gently on your doorstep,
     so the first sound you hear already leans my way.

If the dream returns, I’ll take it.

If not, I’ll take the trace.

I nearly ask for more…
                      I don't.

I’ve learned the trick is simpler—
                  be awake enough
         to carry what it gave me,
                 and say it plain:

    “I woke up wanting you, again”

     and I’ll carry that cup
     until it knocks on your morning.