The sheets on the left
side never warm up. She
sleeps on the right,
curled toward the wall,
and pretends the other
half doesn't exist.
Some nights she reaches
across without thinking,
and the cool cotton
reminds her before her
mind can.
She doesn't move back to
the center. That would
mean admitting something.
Instead, she leaves the
lamp on a little longer.
Lets the silence settle
like dust.
There is a strange
comfort in knowing the
bed is too big. It
means there is still room
for something that hasn't
arrived yet.