(stung, I think)

The cat perches hackles raised
stung, I think, by a mosquito, some
invisible insect, his own imagination leaping
from dreams to wake back thrashing
against the sofa golden fur spit
onto the carpet.

You were in my dreams
again, leaning in from above my
arms encircling your skin-bare waist,
my friend in the bed
beside us head cocked and smiling
and I passing nonchalance thinking
how much longer can we wait.

He hisses away my comforts
no touch, no holding, no hand
stroking his oily cheeks. We press together
in the morning kitchen I reach
for a water glass, grasp
your body pushing
mine tight to the fridge.

He sniffs the edges of the apartment not
quite trusting them to hold place.
I run miles in sunshine wondering
is this what it feels like to be awake?