Yesterday,
At the home,
Not her home,
I found her sleeping
Lying soft upon the mattress
Curled up fetally on her left side,
As almost always for 40 years past.

I had forgotten, utterly
the soft heaving of her breast,
I had forgotten, totally
that stone-calm face
hiding a hundred hurts and a thousand worries.

I lay down,
Wrapping my right arm about her,
Nuzzling my face into the back of her neck,
Pressing aging legs against withering ones,
As almost always before the great betrayal,
As almost always for the last 40 years.

Her breathing deepens,
Her heartbeat slows,
Her body, unforgetting, moves closer to mine.
At peace, she murmurs gently.

The unsteady heartbeat is mine,
The labored breathing is mine,
The wetness on the nape of her neck,
The wetness blurring my vision and burning my eyes
Is mine.

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