The space beside me is cold. My feet feel the absence of your body
under the covers of our bed. You didn’t kiss me goodnight, or if I was
asleep when you came in, you didn’t kiss my temple and brush the hair
from my cheek. I heard no floorboard creak with your weight, no rushing
water from the sink as you brush your teeth. I feel no protective arm
around my waist, and I cannot curl into your body heat on this cold
December night. The glow of the moon reflects off the snow outside,
shining eerie, shimmery light through our curtains. You’re not here to
ask me “what are you doing?” in your sleepy tones as I lift myself out
of bed, touch the cold floor in my bare feet and walk to the window,
gently pushing back the curtain to gaze at the stars. There are no
strong, warm arms to hug me from behind. No lips to kiss my ear.
Why?
You’re thousands of miles away,
on the other side of the world;
fighting a war to keep me safe.
I call up the dog to share the bed. It’s too much emptiness for me to
bare tonight. I turn my face into your pillow and inhale what remains
of your scent
