Chosen People

I woke up at seven because God hates me. That's not true, we're the chosen people. Or, at least, we were.

I gave you one hour and then I couldn't help it. I was restless and my restlessness needs someplace to go. You were mad, it was clear, even mad at me in your sleep. I'd put my arm around you and you'd throw it off. Subconscious tells all.

You asked me how I slept, how I felt, if I was feeling better. You got me a glass of water, just got it felt the dryness in the room and acted accordingly. And when I said you were mad at me in your sleep you said, What the hell do I know?