They sleep beside each other, yet apart,
Unseen, impassive between clean, white sheets.
Each night the bed grows colder, wider—
The empty space passionless as patience slowly fades.
As in graves, they lie apart, not touching in the silence.
There is no shared blessing in these ingrown nights.
No joy, no singing in the flesh,
No heat to warm the heart as they pass the hours asleep.
A savage silence slowly growing,
The absence of a yearning scream,
Murderous glances, as though the wrongs are strange.
They concentrate the will, endure the years
For children, ignorant of the void within their hearts.
The growing trance hardening, waiting
For the day when seasoned heart is free, to leave,
To walk away from death of love before it is too late.