Forgive Me

Cold.
My hands clenched, gently,
hoping that yours were still holding mine.
But I knew you were gone once my own fingertips
pressed against my own palms.

My eyes had not even opened
yet I was certain you had left
because you went to bed in my arms,
and not once have you moved in your sleep.

I know because too many nights have I stayed up,
watching you,
worrying,
wondering.

Will she do it this time?

I sensed the sun's rays stream through the half-opened blinds
and slowly illuminate our room.

But not even the light could warm me.

I stretched my arm to your side of our bed
hoping to feel the imprint of your body
in the sheets,
or perhaps
simply the imprint of your head
on the pillow.
And it seemed to me
that the only imprint left of you
was your name on my heart.

I pulled my arm back
and stuck both of my hands underneath
my own pillow.
It was my way of getting them warm
without you.
And like the tooth fairy,
you had so smoothly placed it where she would have placed a quarter.
Your note.

And then I knew
that your absence,
from then on,
was perpetual.

She did it this time.

Hands shaking,
I grabbed your message
and read those
two words
written so beautifully
because your handwriting was made
of you.

But my love,
It is I that you must forgive.

This poem is about: 
Our world
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