We are not yet divorced,

but we sleep in separate beds.

Drifting off to muted, melancholy dreams,

where we meet,

exchanging steely stares and placid pleasantries.

Sullen ships in the night,

our cheeks still aching with the memory of a smile,

as I admire the etched anniversaries on your body,

racing against the rain as I recall the early mornings,

when all we had was each other,

and all I could think of was you.

I haven’t signed the papers.

You haven’t moved out,

because you’ve nowhere to go,

and I’m afraid to be alone,

so we sleep atop my desk,

unfriendly fingertips bleed pleading affection onto your soft skin,

hoping that we can get the magic back,

if it was ever there to begin with.

We are not yet divorced,

and I keep your ring of old oak,

dangling from my neck like a silly paper moon,

holding you from dusk ‘til dawn,

hoping that this distance will pass.