Morning.
Stretching her arm back to him,
his bed-warmed skin,
expecting the familiar respnse,
his hand to her cheek;
she touches marble; taut, cold;
her brain caves
at her hand’s discovery;
and turn, can she?
Morning:
a morning she knew might come
but the chill of that stone in her bed!
Turning: there is no choice;
mercifully, his eyes were shut.
