Marble

 

Morning.

Stretches her arm back to touch him,

his bed-warmed skin;

expecting the familiar response,

his finger down her backbone.

Touching marble; taut, cold;

her brain struggling to climb

to her hand’s discovery;

and turn; can she?

Morning.

It was a morning she knew might come

but the indifference of the stone shocked her;

turn; there is never a choice;

mercifully, his eyes were shut.