I’m looking for a poem,
perhaps in a book
I read once to you in bed.
But, I find you’ve fallen asleep; these days
you won’t say how tired you’ve become,
that nights are only good
if you can shut your eyes to them.
So, I look over, and wonder,
should I wake you,
ask, how tired you’ve become
because the light’s still on,
and my shadow covers you
like a thin blanket
that cannot hold you
from the cold.

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