The morning light from the skylight
fell gently upon your face
and my heart stopped.
Something about your beauty always did that to me,
especially in the morning.
Right here, in the timeless morning,
because every morning is every morning.
Except that very last one.
When a little thought broke upon the still surface of that moment.
Your body lay peacefully here,
and your breath was easy,
and your face was doing its little magic trick,
startling me, like always, with its deep, unmasked beauty.
And that little thought broke,
sending faint ripples of inquietude through that timeless instant,
running swiftly out to the edges of my mind,
whispering that this was the last time I would see your face in this light.
That this light would keep coming, each morning, fidèle,
but your flesh would no longer be here to receive it,
and that I was going to miss this.
I ignored those ripples.
For I had faith that change would be predictable,
and small and distant,
and slow and lazy,
and that it may not even bother showing up.
Little ripples can be wise.
It has been nearly a year,
and I am so glad you are gone.
you are gone,
absent from this morning light.
Someone else is in this bed
And she is at peace
and she breathes slowly
and she is beautiful in that same cool light
but my heart keeps on beating.