A couple of weeks ago it seemed just an option, a possibility to be tossed into the space between us, a thing without substance.
I said; I’ll wait, see how it goes, perhaps next week….
He said; why not do it tomorrow, don’t you think?
I agreed because it had no attachment, still ephemeral, not yet weighted and fleshed out with meaning.
Last week I thought not a moment too soon. I thought how well he knows me. I thought please let it be soon enough.
I turn over and see the clock. 3.50am. A time for snuggling a baby to the breast, a time for night workers, a time when life ebbs.
3.50am. A time when thoughts spiral into the abyss and the irrational takes substance. A time filled with dread.
Three hours later the day is already weary, expectations exhausted.
Appearances are deceptive.
crackedmirrors and angelpie 
I think this is terrific! Have you read any Jon Macgregor? The last two lines don’t fulfill the promise of the rest of the poem – can you finish it and maintain the vivid story-telling? The rest I love – moved me.