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I lie on my back in his bed and wait for him to come.
He climbs in and faces away from me toward the empty wall.
A cold rattles his breathing.
He does not shed his plaid work shirt or jeans
as he enfolds himself into a cornflower blue blanket.
His faint cologne of summer squash and kale soaks into its soft warmth.

My whispered good night meets silence.

He travels to a place where I can no longer haunt him.
He yells in his sleep, “Aha, ha, aha.”

I curl into a ball at the bed’s edge.

Tonight, as I choke back the dead virus of words left unsaid,
I no longer taste him.