The Dance of Hours

I chase you through the dying light,
your fingers slipping past my grasp—
ten-thirty, eleven, midnight's call.

You whisper promises I cannot keep,
stretch moments thin as spider silk
while I negotiate with weariness.

The bed waits, patient as a prayer,
its cool sheets spread like open arms,
understanding what I cannot say.

I surrender to your gentle push,
let you carry me toward tomorrow's edge
where consciousness dissolves like sugar.

You hold the space between my breaths,
count the hours in heartbeats,
measure rest in REM cycles.

The bed cradles my restless dreams,
becomes cathedral, becomes cave,
becomes the only truth I know.

Then you arrive with morning's blade,
slice through sleep's protective veil—
six-thirty sharp, your favorite hour.

I surface reluctantly from depths
where the bed has been my ship,
my anchor, my salvation.

You offer no apologies
for your relentless mathematics,
your clockwork choreography.

The bed releases me with grace,
holds the warmth of where I've been,
promises return when day is done.

I rise to meet your measured march,
carry the bed's memory in my bones,
already planning our next dance.

#DailyRhythm #BedtimeRitual #MorningAwakening #Consciousness #Poetry #RestAndSleep