7:00 a.m.—
     you leaned on the doorbell of my slumber,
     and I answered like a fool

     who still believes mornings are merciful.

You:
    still drinking.
    (still laughing, too)

    BFF night still alive in your voice.

Me:
   suddenly wide awake,
   pretending I’m not jealous

   of whichever barstool got the director's cut.

I read the evidence—
  that bright,
  sloppy sparkle,
  that “I’m fine” confidence

  that only exists when you're *not* fine.

You narrated the aftermath
    like a weather report:

    partly cloudy,
       90% chance of snacks,
           high probability of “why did I do that,”
                and a cold front named “nap”
                    moving in by mid-morning.

We talked through it,
   because apparently
   this is what today required—

   being your emergency contact for joy.

9:00 a.m.—
     you faded mid-sentence
     like a bar song at last call,
     and I swear I could hear the moment
     your head hit the pillow.

Now the Sylvan is quiet again,
    and I’m just sitting here
    with two truths:

    you're the funniest thing
    to happen to my calendar—

    and I will absolutely
    answer next time, too.