At night
I roll over in bed and face
your neck, seeing in the green
light of the digital clock the curve
of your shoulder where I
used to bury my eyes. My ears
ring from the void your voice
leaves, and the silence stings
like a sweaty palm striking
my temple.
Wasn’t there a time
when I could stroke the shadow
of your shoulder blade? Even in
your sleep you’d stretch like a cat,
and the comforter would slide down
to your waist. Now just my glance
wedges the blankets under your chin
as you sink noiselessly under
the comforter.
by Chris Fow Cohen
Shared with the author's permission
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