Afterthoughts

The empty weight of you missing in our bed
seems heavier and heavier each passing day.

Mourning has turned to resignation,
yet your absence grows larger every night
more complete, final and forever.

At first I hoped it would be like those times
you were just away for a day or two,
when noise from TV covered up the restlessness;
but noise doesn’t matter now
or anymore.

A soft pull on the sheets
or that resettling on your side of the bed
cries louder in your absence that it ever did before.

I sleep my seven hours — but not so deeply —
just on the edge
like waiting for company on a holiday visit.

I needed to say “I love you” more —
not so much for you to know, but
for me to understand how far apart love
and taking you and life for granted
really were.

It is mostly the quiet now that shouts of your leaving.

 
Fred Kreutz

Fred Kreutz

Fred Kreutz is/was a paperboy, corn detassler, dishwasher, night watchman, poet, photographer, father/husband, teacher, and bon vivant.  “Some days you’re the hammer, some days you’re the nail.”