Silence in an Empty Bed

All parts of my soul are unbraided;
I yearn for you.
In the softness of the evening,
by the stillness in the snowfall,
I hear your breathing
in an empty bed.
It's as if these fingers
twisted in my hair are yours,
though my own hand lies there,
tangled.
I myself am knotted up in you,
your absence,
these whispering sheets
your voice when I'm alone.
I close my eyes
to the darkness of the room,
imagining your scent on my pillow,
your lips on my shoulder,
how we would lay hip to hip.
I await the mornings
when you hiss at the cold of the floor on your feet,
eyes half open;
where we glow over breakfast
and speak in glances that drown out
the eight o'clock radio--
for we live in these moments when
our gazes turn the world the other way.
I won't live until you return.