He jerks awake in a cold sweat when Clock strikes 4,
Chiming around in his head, her soft, delicate voice,
The feel of moisturized skin on his fingertips,
Wafts of her sweet green apple hair still permeating his nostrils,
Cryptic sea eyes still twinkling about in his forest browns.

She is still lying on his chest, as he can feel,
As he traces patterns on her freckled arm,
Guiding his free hand down her inner thigh,
They lie in his very own bed, all too real,
Something he cannot lose to what threatens to take it away.

Clock, what an intrusive fellow he is,
Seemingly sounding at every wrong time,
Denying him every wish of slumber he makes,
Every hope he has of seeing her when she isn’t there,
Just to dream of her lying next to him, uninterrupted, all he asks.