you wake early, a ghost in the gathering light;
i crawl, still a dreamer, to see what it'd be like
on your side, in the morning
when the pillow smells of you
to your place, in the evening
when the sheets feel oddly new.

i don't dream of Africa--
it feels so far away.
but should you'd go tomorrow,
i'd cry for yesterday.

and the city here seems different
than when i roamed before.
the tea shop far too 'distant'--
i don't go there anymore.