/ Poetry /
I take my days black now,
no cream, as we used to
take our nights
neat, no ice.
Unshaken. Sight unseen.
And sometimes we would sing,
not sadly,
an old sad song:
what time we have,
we won’t have long.
It was always there,
the pillow we woke to,
turning, keeping the cool side
against our faces,
each the other’s better half,
for whom the mourning
came too soon.