A speaker stays in bed through long, slow mornings, and the poem begins with a small, odd image: a bird seems to be roosting in their tangled hair. The speaker "samples" it, as if turning the moment over with curiosity rather than hurry. The hair has been left messy by "hands," which suggests someone touched it before, and that messiness now confuses the moment of waking up. Half asleep, the speaker can't quite sort out where they are or what has changed.
Then the poem turns on its last line. The speaker thinks of "your pillow and the smell / it caught from you." The tone shifts from playful to tender and a little aching. The other person is not there, and what remains is a trace, a scent held in fabric. The mood is quiet, drowsy, and intimate, with loneliness sitting just under the surface. The speaker never says they miss this person outright. The memory arrives on its own, the way it often does first thing in the morning.