I miss you snuggling up to my back,
both arms around me,
your breasts against me;
we share the initial chill of the sheets
by huddling together and
squirming frequently,
trying to get comfortable
in that perfect place,
but it is the friction of our bodies —
between us and the bed
— just being close
that makes us warm.
I’m going to sleep now,
wishing you were here.
This futon is vast and unfillable
without your volume.
Stuffed animals are strangely solemn
as opposed to their usual quiet merriment.
We all miss you Dawn.
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