I've slept enough to know where my faith lies, and my dreams just show me what I want from the body to my left.
On the edge of unconscious I grab his hand and place my wart speckled fingers onto the center of his curled palm and fervently think, "I love you, I'm sorry, I love you." He doesn't wake up, and that gives me mixed feelings. I withdraw my arm across the moat of empty space between us and write poetry on the insides of my eyelids; my malcontent fading fast.
The morning peels the skin from my nose and my vanity grumbles in defeat.