The Vertical Divide

Your side of the bed has frosted over,
forever sealing the mattress in your
favorite sleeping position.
I don't mind, really,
I'm not much for tossing in my sleep,
or sleeping for that matter.
So, your shrine will go untouched,
except for in those weak moments
when I clutch the pillow
and inhale the remnants of you
with the ferocity of an addict
clearing his nose from the snow.

Those times are less frequent now,
but I can still admit that they happen.
Most often after I wake up from
midnight fantasies of you and
chocolate-vanilla-swirl in June,

before this bed had gone cold,
before there was a clear divide
between your side and mine.

Nights where you couldn't sleep close enough,
as if you wanted to sink into me,

before I was too warm to sleep next to,
before I was too frozen to
be with anymore.