Like every other day I missed you;
Like very moment of every hour of every day.
Waking up; it was cold and I thought of our snuggles under the duvet.
Xali between us as we would chat about the day ahead.

I remembered this time last year. It hurt.
You in a hospital room waiting news.
Me visiting and never having enough hours in the day.
Both ignorant of the shock to come.

I returned from town greeted by the kids, not your voice.
I made soup for lunch, a mundane task that yet held memories.
An hour’s siesta reminded me again of how big the bed is without you.
I whatsapped with Nick, somethings don’t change.

I’m returning to our (my?) bed now.
My “Goodnight, love you loads,”  not echoed.
Snuggled with our kids: six more warm bodies each vying for space.
And still it’s your body I miss, as I hope for sleep and oblivion.






1 Comment

Filed under Contemporary

One response to “Today

  1. edita

    I remember

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