It was a cold winter night, some frost-choked December eve. Don’t ask me when, For I don’t remember, But the fire took in great breaths Of smouldering sparks As it drew to its nigh end.

I woke up, but you weren’t there.

I suppose a part of me expected it. Part of me knew that You had left some time in the night Leaving cowardly footsteps In your snow-foamed wake. I don’t blame you for slyly Slipping into the biting embrace Of the waking night without Rousing me from my slumber. I suppose now if I asked you, Well if I could ask you, You would blame an idle compassion That burned somewhere deep beneath your heart, As if leaving me to slumber in My lasting sleep was a Merciful act of kindness.

But still, I woke alone.