By Andrew Palmer
The first glow creeps across the wall, but I am already awake, anticipating dawn. As the light slips slowly, suffusing the bed, it doesn’t feel warm–I feel as cold as the empty pillow beside me.
No imprint of your cheek, no stray hair intruding onto my side, no soft breathing. Dawn brings no promise, only what I remember.
It feels wrong that I slept at all; any rest is somehow insulting. Light crawls up the blanket until an accusatory glare sears my eyes so that I blink back tears. I said those things…
The first sun doesn’t stop the dark.
Oh this so sad but beautifully worded. Love it!
My poetic cousin, Andrew.
A morning moment captured.