It’s been this way for years—
my side of the bed
feels like an abandoned playground,
stretched wide under the sheets,
her side tucked tight as a drum.

I don’t ask her anymore,
why she curls her back,
so small, against the curve of my patience.
I just listen to the rasp of her breath.
Her hands drift—
fingers skimming the mattress seam—
measuring the length of her leaving.
Even in sleep,
she moves like a caged bird
eyeing an open window.

The nights are endless—
I feel her absence,
colder than her body ever could be.
Her warmth turned off,
while I stay open—
like a shoreline bracing for waves
that never get close enough,
pulling back before they kiss the sand—
even the tide has its limits.

Some nights, sleep betrays her—
I hear her grinding dreams between her teeth,
muttering the name of a man
she thought she’d forgotten,
she can't keep under her tongue.

This isn’t her fault—love never is.
She loves me like wind loves tall grass—
never staying, just passing through.
And I love her too—enough to know
I am her leaning post
she doesn’t want to need.