It’s 4 a.m.
My eyes adjust
to the darkness in my room
and my arm reaches
to touch you.
But you are not there.
My hand
grasps the sheets
where you once lay,
a pale imitation
of the way your skin
felt against my coarse hands.
The wild
October wind
blows outside,
and my body aches
for the times
when I
would pull you closer,
sheltering you from the elements
keeping you safe
in my arms.
The faint beating of your heart
lulling me back to sleep,
away from the pain
of not having you at all.
If it means anything to you
anything at all,
I would suffer again
and again
and again,
if it meant reaching for you,
at 4 a.m.


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