One-thirty in the morning
and you are not here
I reach for your pillow
it’s cold and it’s bare
This bed grows bigger
each night I lay in it alone
Beneath mounds of covers
and still chilled to the bone
Three-thirty has passed
it’s now close to six
These little snatched moments
playing life’s pick-up-sticks
In the script I had written
the one for my life
It was me who you’d chosen
in life as your beloved wife
Like the saddest of movies
the most tragic of all plays
Only in our memoirs
will these be the good old days
Gypsie’s Wonderful World of Words 
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