The only warm thing in the bed is the cat,
and I’m laying awake
struggling with the sheets
on the brink of this hole in my heart
and in my head
and next to me in the bed.
My wife says she needs some space.
Not just space to breathe,
or space to think,
or space to be,
but enough space for someone else to climb on top of her,
enter when she’s begging them, “please,
I want you inside of me.”