Promissory

I wake alone
coughing
in her Midtown West
apartment
tangled in the unforgiving
crimson of her sheets.
She left for work
two hours ago
but her side of the bed
is still warm.
A folded tank-top she wore
the night before was left
on her pillow
as a temporary substitute
for the spicy scent of her skin.
I reach over and pull it
under my pillow case.
The smell might drive me mad
right now in this half-dreaming state.

I turn towards the street noise
coming from behind the drawn blinds
and notice a pint glass on the night stand
that wasn't there when we went to bed.
It's full of tasteless water fresh from
the Catskill Aqueduct, hundreds of small bubbles
clinging to the side of the glass.
No lip marks mar the rim, no sip is missing--
it was placed here for me specifically
while I was still asleep.
I raise the cup to my mouth and swallow slowly
savoring its lack of mineral content or impurities.
Funny, I only drank water at restaurants
before we met. Now I crave it from her tap.

And this is what I say
to those who don't understand
that to love
is to forgive:
I've got my glass of water.