New Year's Resolution

In the middle of the night
your friend’s Siamese finds her way back to the couch,
her favorite place to sleep, the territory she ceded
when your Christmas morning flight to New York City disrupted her routine. 
Perhaps when you shifted position from the left side to lay flat
your knee bumped into something that felt oddly soft, pliant,
with a slight rise and fall.  Disoriented, your eyes open
to the ceiling, but it reveals nothing about where you are;
all ceilings look the same in the dark.  
Looking left, your eyes fixate across the room
1:43 glows soft in green. 
You remember: you are at a friend’s house
a little more than 3 hours into sleep
a little less than 3 hours left to go. 

Your eyes lock with the Siamese’s pale blues. 
Your presence on the couch has disturbed
her sleep in more ways than one tonight. 
You mumble an apology, massage that spot on her temple. 
The cat rubs her head against your knee
satisfied by your attempt to make amends. 
It is only when you shift over two more inches–to give her more space–
you realize how long it has been since you did just that:
six months since the last warm body,
much longer for the one you hoped was something more.
You position into fetal, let the cat fill the U-shaped space
in your surrender and promise that next year will be different.