It was a cold winter night,

some frost-choked December eve.

Don’t ask me when,

For I don’t remember,

But the fire took in great breaths

Of smouldering sparks

As it drew to its nigh end.

I woke up, but you weren’t there.

I suppose a part of me expected it.

Part of me knew that

You had left some time in the night

Leaving cowardly footsteps

In your snow-foamed wake.

I don’t blame you for slyly

Slipping into the biting embrace

Of the waking night without

Rousing me from my slumber.

I suppose now if I asked you,

Well if I could ask you,

You would blame an idle compassion

That burned somewhere deep beneath your heart,

As if leaving me to slumber in

My lasting sleep was a

Merciful act of kindness.

But still, I woke alone.