A little too cold,
a little too small,
a little too quiet,
a little too empty.
No one to steal the covers,
No one to steal the pillows,
No one to approach,
No one to accompany.
Nothing but inanimate covers
laying like forgotten rags.
Nothing but inanimate cushions—
fabric instead of skin.
That's my bed without you.
But I'll think of your company
and maybe you'll think of mine:
I'll make do for the night,
'til we're again side by side.