I lie in bed, shivering in cold sheets, waiting for the nightly crumb of her affections in an otherwise barren house; waiting for the press of lips upon a willing forehead, a ritual as welcome as sleep, itself.
I lie patiently until her absence tastes like fear and I go to where she sits and I ask, “Are you coming?” and she says, “No. You’re too old.”
By the time I reach my room, I’ve aged a hundred years.
Give me the glow of moonlight and the warmth of my own bed, and I will outlive any kiss not given.
Laura A. Pike is an administrative assistant who lives in Tampa, Florida, with her two rescue cats, Priya and Naya. Her work has appeared in Profane Journal, Versification, Roi Faineant, and two anthologies. You can find her on Twitter here: @lauraapike.