Waking
Light in the bedroom when you open your eyes sliding a hand outward, palm moving smoothly over the flannel sheet, fingertips searching hopelessly for a warm companion who is not there, was not there dreaming beside you, will never be there where your waking hand reaches nothing, touches only the seaside cold February morning, and when the nothing is again made as real as the new day, Death whispers to you kindly, tender certain brief words and He is near and he will hurt you so much less than another solitary waking.