Moonlight spills down vacant sills,
Illuminates an empty bed.
Dreams lie in crates. One hand creates
Wan silver circles, left unread
By its companion unmoved now
By anything that lies ahead.
I watch the minutes test the limits
Of ornamental movement here,
Where once another hand would hover.
Each circuit incomplete. So dear,
So precious, so precise, the touch
Of hands that wait, yet ask so much.
Originally published by The Lyric