It is that morning time when you wish you had a bb gun to shoot those screeching blue jays jerking you reluctantly from that plausible place where Michael J. Fox is your brother then your lover then your best friend’s lover and you’re hating her. It is that morning time when sticky eyes squint to focus on the neon L.E.D.’s of squared off numbershis shoulder blocks the view but he is not near just body heat so you slip effortlessly into your reserved space where after 20 years breasts fit squarely into sand grooves between shoulder blades. It is that morning time when he enfolds your kneecaps behind his lifts an ankle to make room for one of yours and locks your left arm around his chest to complete the suction and he is sleeping again and the pudding skin of his upper body is cool on your lips and you begin the dialysis with each tandem breath: inhale love, exhale fear. It is that morning time when you love him most because the only thing to be angry at is his rhythmic snore while you try to recreate the Michael J. Fox dream but it is too absurd and you couldn’t possibly be jealous of your best friend so you release the suction of your bodies and he does not like this separation. It is that morning time when you’ve decided you’ve both had enough sleep as you exhale loudly in frustration edging back to his warmth you whisper honey, did you ever have a bb gun when you were a boy and he resents the interruption of his dream the one where your best friend is his lover.