There is no waking without him. The creases in your sheets remind you his job is to mess with your life. He stalks you into the kitchen where the coffee splashes your hand then flings you to the cold baptism of the faucet. No, you will not forget him when he swerves you to the edge of the snow bank and overrides your heartbeat, when he hunts you down with "morning by morning new mercies I see," the rhythm cutting your thoughts like a blender's metallic pulse.
You wish he never knew that sometimes you want to grip a god you can leave behind, the cool bronze calves of a statue you can visit in a temple down the street, a straight-faced fellow happy with an offering of a charred bird or two. You could finally be alone with your luxurious fears, escape into the woods without his breath blowing the leaves into your path, the expectant open fields of his hands waiting for you to swipe in your crumbs.