It has become a pattern; <br />each night I sit here at my desk <br />writing, <br />delaying going to our <br />empty bed. <br />Finally I lay down and <br />read until, <br />eyes heavy with sleep, <br />the book falls from my grasp. <br />Each night when I turn out the light <br />instead of sleep <br />thoughts of her, <br />the wanting of her <br />come to me. <br /> <br />It has become a pattern <br />lying there, <br />each sound of our cats <br />nocturnal roaming <br />stirring <br />nocturnal longing. <br />From across the hall <br />the sound of her <br />softly stirring <br />brings <br />a sweet sad yearning. <br /> <br />8/31/05<br /><br />Richard Quinby<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nocturnal-longings/
