Half the Bed

Forty years, one side each.
The clock still ticks on yours.
(half the bed)

I still sleep on my edge of the mattress
like you're coming back at ten;
your reading glasses on the nightstand,
folded like they'll open again.
The dent your shoulder left is patient —
memory foam that won't forget.
Some nights I lay my hand across it
just to warm your silhouette.

The doctor says I'm sleeping badly;
my daughter says to rearrange.
But comfort isn't what I'm after —
some emptiness I need unchanged.

I keep half the bed for you,
the clock on your side ticking through.
Forty years of reaching over —
love don't learn a smaller shape.

Half the bed. (still yours)
Half my heart. (still yours)
love don't learn a smaller shape.

Sunday I washed both the pillows,
hung the cases in the sun;
force of habit, said the neighbor —
no, ma'am. Faithfulness is one.
I turn the radio to your station,
let the gospel fill the room;
you always hummed the alto line —
the quiet house still carries the tune.

The doctor says I'm sleeping badly;
my daughter says to rearrange.
But comfort isn't what I'm after —
some emptiness I need unchanged.

I keep half the bed for you,
the clock on your side ticking through.
Forty years of reaching over —
love don't learn a smaller shape.

Truth is, the grief counselor means well with her worksheets,
but she never loved you.
She calls it holding on; I call it holding room —
but she never sat at our kitchen table.
Heaven better have a king-size —
I've been saving my side too.

Mm. (your station)
Mm. (your side)
the quiet house still carries the tune.

I keep half the bed for you,
the clock on your side ticking through.
Forty years of reaching over —
love don't learn a smaller shape.

Goodnight from my edge of the mattress.
Same time tomorrow, love.
(half the bed)