I wake,
confused
you are not
here
the space
beside me cold
I remember,
I am away, not home
It is
natural that you are not here.
Soon, soon
the bed at
home will be empty
your space
grown cold
without your
fevered restlessness
labored
breathing
middle of
the night stagger to the toilet.
It will be
cool and smooth
books and
papers and laptop
will reclaim
the space they ceded you
or I might
slide back to that side
given to you
during some long-forgotten illness
Perhaps,
someday, I will mistake a street person
For you,
wearing one of your old shirts.
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