Dead of night

Dead of night,
I reach for her.
Bed is empty,
her side cold.
I sigh. Rise.

Sitting Indian-style,
bent over her book,
cartoon night-light
overhead,
tongue peeking out.
She is focused.
Doesn’t notice me,
watching her, loving her,
every minute,
more than the last.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Starting anew.

On divorce.

I've discovered my spirituality.