Nocturnal Longings Poem by Richard Quinby

It has become a pattern;
each night I sit here at my desk
writing,
delaying going to our
empty bed.
Finally I lay down and
read until,
eyes heavy with sleep,
the book falls from my grasp.
Each night when I turn out the light
instead of sleep
thoughts of her,
the wanting of her
come to me.

It has become a pattern
lying there,
each sound of our cats
nocturnal roaming
stirring
nocturnal longing.
From across the hall
the sound of her
softly stirring
brings
a sweet sad yearning.

8/31/05