You, who now needs a room at ice temperature.
Me, who is always chilly and
suffers restless leg syndrome.

We don’t sleep together well, anymore.
The early lust of two bodies
sprawled over each other
in an akimbo post passion
has been replaced
by separate beds.

We don’t sleep together well, anymore.
These days
our lips touch quietly and gently
with the taste of toothpaste
and the scent of soothing salve
with astringent notes of floral skin cream.

We don’t sleep together well, anymore
And I pine the passing.