Five am, light slices through the angle of the awning
and cuts across my cramping calf.
I try to stretch it slowly, for Juliet needs her sleep.
A barren thought. She is not there, she sleeps in a colder bed.

Two pm. I seek some joy to counteract the tears.
We had from our first years three hundred letters,
long testaments of connection and affinity. They dam
their flow, for now, but she’s not here. Only memory instead.

Eleven pm, and I spiral down into the silent vacuum.
One thought: A step to the verandah and a ten-storey drop
will stop the pain. But we told each other to remember
how strong we loved, should one die. She is not here, she’s dead.

One am. I’ve spent the day in distractions, attempting
to tempt meaning or motivation closer. Exhaustion
stumbles in time with my steps as I brush my teeth
and say goodnight. She is not there, she sleeps in a colder bed.

I sleep, avoiding memories. Waiting for an ambulance.
Her breathing stilled, her body dropped. No pain.
Everyone wants to die like this, peacefully.
She is not here. She sleeps in a colder bed.
 

                                   8 April 2024