You had this habit of
Pushing your foot out
From beneath the bed clothes
And holding it up to the wall,
The paint coarse and cool
Beneath your calloused footprint.
These days I sleep alone
With my feet cocooned by the
End of the inward turned duvet,
My toes curling and unfurling nervously.
And sometimes, when I think of it,
I gingerly move a foot out to the wall
Relishing in that sharp cold air
That rushes under the sheets
And fills the cavern of our still frames.
But when I roll over
You’re still gone.