This is
the same bed
I’d thrown myself into
hundreds of times
for hundreds of nights
spending hundreds of hours
weeping over
the loss of you.
These are
the same pillows I used
to muffle thousands of
tear-drenched prayers
begging for a thousand things
about you,
a lot of them in contrast
asking God
to return you to me,
or, if He wouldn’t,
to let you be happy
with a good,
beautiful woman
who deserved you,
and healthy children,
and, if He would,
to let the two of us
live long enough
to have another chance
when your kids have grown
old enough to understand
that we belong together
and, if He wouldn’t,
for me to leave this earth
before you do
so I wouldn’t ever
have to learn
to live without hope
and for you to know,
no matter how
that I spent my whole
life loving you…

That is the same moon
we’re made love under.
Those are the same stars
who bore witness
to your vows
when you spoke them.

But this is not
the same night.
This is not
the same chapter of sleep
I’m closing my eyes to.
And these will not
be the same dreams,
and the pendulum swings
and the secrets I keep,
cease being secrets
and give themselves away
to the willing orphanage
of inevitable change.

I am the same woman…