A POEM

In the three breaths it takes for you to get to snoring,
I watch your face fall backwards through your life;
to a sleep that threatens to drag me into it.

I’m grateful for the hatred snoring brings.
64 years of hurt cascading,
brings me beyond what I can do, post orgasm.
Breathing, barely.

Bed sharing is ridiculous; bed sharing my bed is ridiculous.
Our separate room policy, just that,
a policy.
I am not leaving, this bed, my pillow.

My first thought is never, to wake you; tell you go to your own bed.
Sleep is precious.
Before I start thinking about getting your own pillow to smother you, I Google narcolepsy.
If I can’t love you, I can at least diagnose you.