Only for Comfort

There was no getting
warm the
day
you drove me to
the station
snow
dripping from
trees
streetlights
damp with
hunger.
How is it your chest grows
beneath the covers now where once
my hands lay.
Nothing sinks
quite the
way it used to
not even gravity.
I am haunted by
your absence.
how is it you manage to
live somewhere with
white sand and
a spanking blue sea
your pulse
constant
under the pillow
exists
only for
comfort.

by jayne lyn stahl