It’s cold in our bed. I climb in.
The machine is already on, no closeness tonight.
I plump up my pillow before settling my head.
I shouldn’t be sad, it keeps him alive.
It also allows me to sleep without enduring sounds of sawing logs.
But it’s on already and he’s not even here.
It’s how I know. Not tonight. Not most nights.
Why can’t it wait until we have said our good nights?
He climbs into bed and delivers a quick peck,
then turns off the light and slides on the mask.
Tethered to his side, no more cuddles,
no more romance, only a hand if I’m lucky.
Most nights, it is his back.
I turn to my side, a tear runs down.
No wonder my dreams take me to other worlds.
Perhaps those worlds are the reality, and this is just a dream?