He wakes up
to a bottle of *****
these days touched
against his cheek,
cold and empty,
and he tries to recall when
the last time she’s been both
and can’t remember
it makes his head ache
He curses, a slight wave of
Panic,
then remorse,
then, the calm.
The alarm hasn’t rung,
The clock hasn’t wind past four-thirty
And he hasn’t felt complete since the day she left