The most beautiful flowers are sent, 
when you're in mourning of a life, 
and their temporary splendor reminds you of mortality. 
Facts are facts, 
once you're picked you start to perish, 
the hourglass turns, 
and there's only one way out. 
Left behind are the spectators -
- only when petals wilt it's a shallow morose, 
as the flowers only cared for us on the surface. 
It reminds you of the life lost, 
even decades long the time feels short, 
decorated by snapshots of memory, 
that stand just beyond our touch. 

You asked me if I believe in Hell 
and I recline in my seat, 
look at the sky, 
and exhale. 
Because the answer is no, 
and you'll ask me how come? 
Why would don't I believe in the fiery afterlife that awaits dark souls for their eternal torture? 
Because dear, 
I've looked the Devil in the eyes across from me at dinner, 
I've sat in a room with the Demon King himself, 
I even share his DNA, 
his face. 
So no, 
Hell isn't real, 
for the Devil is already here, 
walking amongst us all. 
Disguised in skin that seems similar, 
the Devil personifies right next to us, 
and not in petty lies or small human crimes, 
in pure evil, 
that we misunderstand until it's too late. 
I've defended the Devil, 
I've had his back, 
and then he showed himself to me and I screamed out - 
- yet he didn't show himself fully
until his black eyes were caught red handed, 
until it was too late. 
Hell is something we carry around with us, 
while we figure it out here on Earth, 
the afterlife is for those who have earned their peace, 
the afterlife is for the souls ready to guide, 
the afterlife is for those who should have kept living. 
So no, my friend, 
Hell is not a fear I have, 
for I have risen from fire's ashes more than once, 
the wounds have burned shut and my eyes are tired, 
yet the weight just sits there as I carry on. 
Because if Hell is something we carry around with us, 
Heaven is also here, 
if you let it in. 
If my life is parallel to the Devil's, 
that means my path is one of The Lovers, 
one of choice, 
one that means the gardens will bloom again after the storms. 
So no, no, Hell is just something I cannot invest in, 
as I search for the joy that the stars project upon us from the darkness, 
as I dig myself out of the ruin, 
no, no, 
I fear no Hell on the other side, 
for I have survived it already. 

But here it is, it’s been 12 days since I received a call that made my blood run cold. I cannot and will not publicly discuss details that surround my father’s untimely death, but you can Google his name and get the gist. I am living a literal nightmare.

I am currently staring at an engraved box that holds his cremains and I am still waiting for the phone to ring to tell me it was a mistake, his body wasn’t actually found, he was just lost somewhere and is getting fluids. But no, that’s not the case, the reality is what it is, and I am left with the ruins.

Alchemizing pain has been a speciality of mine my entire life. Notebooks of poetry, endless paintings, sounds sang from deep within my diaphragm - I have always known how to spin the gold from the remnants. I understand that things take time, but I am not a patient person, I have always had the answers, and today I find myself lost.

The physical pain I am carrying is something I was not prepared for - being in public is difficult. I find myself wanting to hug every stranger or scream at them - I have no idea what language my brain and body are speaking to each other and I am left here helpless and frozen.

This is not my vibe.

I am not someone who lays in bed. I am not someone who is held under the weight. I am someone who can sculpt something useful out of the mound of dirt in front of her. But my powers have dulled. I feel like I have been given a limp Tetris piece that has made its way onto the pile creating an error code because no other pieces fit around it.

I have pulled my cards, I have consulted the decks, and they have been not only on point but encouraging the patience I don’t have. My rage cannot even break through this thick layer of sad that has coasted my soul. It’s blocking it all, and that disconnection is not something I have ever had. I have always been able to figure shit out, and this, I just cannot.

I am lucky, I am surrounded by support and nobody has hit me with any stupid shit like ‘he’s in a better place’ or ‘everything happens for a reason’ luckily everyone knows just how fucked up this entire situation is and I don’t think anyone is relying on those old sayings to carry them though. Instead the weight has fallen upon my shoulders, and I don’t even have the permission to move yet. I am standing still in the face of systems and institutions in place - and everyone is doing their jobs - and all I can do is sit here and remember -

- remember that my Dad is dead.

I want to write 1,000 pages, I want to paint until my arm goes numb, I want to sing and scream and dance into the void that has been opened for me, yet all I can do is take one more breath and order snacks from DoorDash and remember to feed the ache so I can manage another hour. I know, time, I know, wait, I know, it’ll come back, but it wasn’t my turn yet. It wasn’t his time, this was not on the agenda this year.

Instead I was supposed to be at his house two days after this happened. I was inviting my nephew to the property for a tractor ride after LegoLand, we were supposed to have s’mores for breakfast one last time. Instead Steve is shoveling through rubble, I am answering questions, and waiting, waiting to see what’s next.

I know I am not the first to join this club, I won’t be the last, and if you are still reading and you’ve lost a parent you may find me annoying in my stream of conscience rant - forgive me - Holden Caulfield had a resounding effect on me growing up and sometime’s it’s the only way I can process. I just have to write it out even if I have spoken it to death. As a parent carrying my children’s grief journey while managing my own has been a battlefield, but we are getting through, I think. I hope.

I know the poetry will still come, I know the art and the beauty are still there - it’s just giving me a harder time this go around to surface. I am looking for the glimmers and it just feels dark. The darkness is suffocating in a way that is unfamiliar. I can only hope that the ‘right thing’ gets done from here. Whatever the hell that is. Because what is ‘right’ anymore? The evil that has encircled my being has left me vulnerable and small, I can’t even go there for too long, it hurts too much.

So much,

because at the end of the day nothing changes that my Dad is gone.

My Dad. Mine.

I’ll never be the same.

I have always been the person, 
to dive into the depths presented, 
whether of joy or pain. 
Sinking before I swam, 
taking in the pressure, 
letting it coat my pores and consume my mind. 
There was always something beautiful, 
complex, 
a curiosity of human design waiting to be met. 
But this? 
This is a wet rock and my fingers hold no grip, 
slippery and dense, 
it grows as it closes in. 
There is no beauty here, 
no hope, 
no glimmer under the grime. 
There is only ash and suffering, 
broken glass slices my feet as I walk, 
and takes pieces of my soul with every step. 
There is no love here, 
water fills my lungs as I scream, 
helpless in the depths. 
I have always been the person, 
that could squeeze the diamond out of the coal, 
with her bare hands. 
Finding magic without searching, 
collecting treasures, 
sharing secrets of wonder. 
Will I ever be her again? 
What has been taken creates a hollow unimaginable, 
flames of fury, 
pools of blood. 
Veins are filled with ice, 
heart is filled with rage, 
beating while broken. 
I hear there will be reason, 
understanding, 
a path to lead to the horizon yet again. 
But the sunset was covered by darkness, 
the clouds are cruel, 
and make me believe I may never rise again. 

I woke up and made my family pancakes in his honor. I danced to Tangled up in Blue while laughing with Townes as we flipped them and I added powdered sugar to Shelter from the storm. I floated through the early hours to Bob Dylan thinking of my Dad. Thinking of Bob.

You may have found this because of the headlines. You may have found this randomly. This is not the end of this story, and this is my life. My reality is something I cannot quite describe, but I will carry on, carry through, and fight for my Dad’s legacy with everything I have.

Without further ado, the words I wrote for my Father.

Have you ever been on vacation in a new place and stood in front of the ocean, or in front of a forest, and it’s so big and beautiful that you jar up some of the water, sand, or dirt to bring home? Then you realize that the jar holds pieces of what you saw but can never actually replicate the majesty that you once stood before? Well, that’s how it feels trying to write about my Dad, my Dad, Robert, Bob Ryan. You know the guy too, which is why you’re here, while I recite these words that I hope show him a shred of justice.

I’m going to start at the end. I am going to start right here - because this is the bad place, and I want to end somewhere better. I stand here under circumstances that I will not detail, only state as it is the elephant in the room that we will all quietly acknowledge for our own, to protect ourselves and the young that are present. But we are here, when we really shouldn’t be, remembering my Father. His last recorded words really say it all - a simple text to his beloved nephew Johnny read three words that encapsulate everything you need to know about Bob:

“I’ll be there.”

I’ll. Be. There.

What time? (He would either be 2 hours early or 20min late but if it was past 3:00pm, he was already out of time)

Because that’s the one thing, you knew, I knew, everyone knew was a guarantee, Bob, would be there. Whether you are tiling a floor, replacing light fixtures, needed to yell about the government, or needed an order of cookies, he was there, front row, at your side, day or night. Living in a world without that fact, seems impossible.

My Dad had more character in his pinky finger than most people have within their whole bodies, and he was the tallest man in every room in which he stood even if his stature held him at 5’8. Bob was a giant, a man amongst men, with no ego to speak for it, because that’s just who he was. I learned early the extent of my Father’s generosity, that No was only a word he would use if I wanted to change the channel from the Yankee game growing up, that if I needed something, anything, yes was always the answer. It would have been easy to take advantage of that quality, but instead, as his daughter, I chose to learn from it.

Nobody loved how my Dad loved, and nobody gave the way my Dad gave. - Anyone and everyone was family to him. You could meet my Dad once, ask him for a hand with something, and he would show up with tools, a flashlight, graph paper, a pencil, and a lot of expletives to finish the job. His nephew Dave described my Dad as ‘Unbothered yet always prepared’ and it made me laugh because it was true. No matter the circumstance he had a solution, a decent attitude about it, and he was probably so unbothered in life because he chose to bother everyone else instead. You know, about how to set up the furniture for a party, or if Holden was reading at the dinner table, or if you weren’t holding a fork properly, he let you know you weren’t doing it his way. You laughed it off when Ranger Bob came through, because his hospitality was always above and beyond. The days after losing my Dad I found myself at my cousin, his nephew Mickey’s house. I have been in a state, as you could imagine, but every morning I woke up and Mickey was ready to make me and everyone there breakfast. Not only did he whip up eggs and bacon and French toast for Sawyer on special request, he played music and talked and made the morning feel bearable again. All I could think about sitting there was waking up at my Dad’s, where he would let us sleep in, and we would come downstairs to a table of eggs, and bacon, sausage and pancakes - Mick you like to make comments about how my Dad ‘put up with the Cerbone boys’ but I think it was worth it, because the three of you are carrying some of the best qualities he had, and it shows. I also hear stories about how my Dad was the rambunctious younger brother who could do no wrong in Granny’s eyes - and I guess that is still true because here he is having the last laugh leaving you Dan to fend for yourself with your sisters. We had an interesting family situation, my Dad being number 7 of 8, he was an Uncle at 18 months old, and Mike you describe him as one of your best friends. Every single one of you in this family lists your Uncle, Great Uncle, Cousin, etc - as your friend. And that’s because to my Dad, friend and family were one in the same.

Steve, I know that you want more than anything to find words about my Dad as he meant the world to you You described him as your role model and you have been a son to him not just for the 15 years we’ve been married but really for the 23 we’ve been together. My Dad valued you, and he trusted you to take care of me and you have never failed that. Steve wants all of you to know that Bob was a pillar in his life, meant so much to him, and I am here to let you know Steve that I know my Dad felt the same. Honestly sometimes I think that he would choose you over me.

To expand on that, I think the title of G-Man changed the game for my Dad. Holden, Townes, and Sawyer, you are his legacy and he loved you with everything he had. G-Man would take the kids for weekends upstate and they told us that he only really listened to Billy Joel and the Beatles in the car (to his delight and their dismay). My dad’s consistent presence for my kids wasn’t just weekends away, it was bagels and bunny milk, muffins and random drop ins while we were on our way out the door - and the fact that I will never hear his ‘Hello!” From my entryway again is a tough pill to swallow. I said this to you kids privately, but you three will carry G-Man through this world in his wake with every next right choice you make. You will make him proud, because you have been given the gift of having Bob Ryan as your G-Man, and you are already shining examples of that. There is a reason you are named Townes Robert, kid, your G-Man was one of the greats.

I had so many more jokes up my sleeve for this one, including tin-foil hats and the whole bit - and believe me I want to laugh and share more. MK loved how my Dad would crack himself up, and once his laugh got to that point of wheezing the entire room would be in stitches. Amanda do you think our Dads are together behaving that way now? They have to be, and they’re wearing funny hats, I can just feel it. I need my Dad’s memory to surpass headlines, I need him to be remembered in the way he treated people. At a young age my Father taught me that the only valuable currency in this world is how you interact with others around you, the words and thoughts you exchange. He didn’t just say these things, he embodied them. My Dad believed in second chances, that everybody makes mistakes, the lack of perfection made us human and he always saw past reactions and focused on reasons. He was the net I always knew that was under me, I may fall, it may hurt, but I knew I would always bounce back and he would be there. He was the standard.

I told you I wanted to end in a better place than where we started, so I am going to wrap it up here with imagery that has given me great comfort. I like to picture it like this, Robbie’s brother Mickey pulled him in for a long awaited embrace - it’s been a while, and the two of them walked up to the house where they’ve all been waiting. Carol waved from the garden as they made their way to the back deck, catching up, where Dave and Diane were sitting with a tray of iced tea and baked goods. Dad looked over to see his friends Richie, Joel and Joe on the lawn. You can hear Bob S in the garage while Aunt Mary pulled into the driveway with Matt & Helen in the backseat. When he went inside he was hit with the sound of Jeopardy blasting as Uncle Tom fiddled with the clicker and a glance over his shoulder had him see Matty & Fran dancing in the foyer. But all of that could wait, because he needed to sit with his father at the kitchen table, while his Mother was at the stove, preparing him something tasty to eat.

I love you so much Dad.

I yearn for peace 
yet it that sentence you can sense 
that the poetry it may cost. 
The solace silences the frequencies, 
that crash onto my shore like waves 
before a storm. 
I wish it were simple 
That feelings were fleeting, 
like beads of sweat rolling off my back. 
But the perspiration pools and stains, 
I’m not one to leave no trace, 
it's just never been that way for me. 
The serenity I seek is in vain, 
because I'd rather drown and perish under intensity, 
than live one second in the mundane. 

Damp heat still finds a way to chill to the bone 
while you're saturated with moisture, 
and drowning in your skin. 
Labored breath brings the rock in your throat to what it thinks is the bottom of the sea, 
the ocean birthed by fire. 
Teeth sunken into poisoned apples, 
sampling your own creation, 
tasting your own medicine. 
Immunity feels like gliding through the just deep enough puddles, 
the ones that splash back, 
instead of allowing you to plummet. 
Life support in microdoses, 
blips of glimmer to keep you hanging on, 
is this as good as it's ever going to get? 
Hope mixed with gratitude is the sugar that cuts the bitterness,
just enough, just enough to make you forget,  
but you'll never outrun that shadow sewn to your ankles. 
Haze glazes it over, 
carrying soul to body once more to rejoice in miracles, 
that shatter like glass when humidity applies the pressure. 
The weight bears down, 
and sometimes it just seems sweet, 
to surrender, and let it win. 

Orange-yellow puzzle pieces appear on the asphalt through the leaves, 
images that will never be complete, 
temporary haze, 
lasting impressions. 
Wildfires bloom in fields that mirror wildflowers, 
blazes that destroy, 
smoke that reminds, 
coughs that linger. 
Definitive statements rise up like the guard, 
never, 
always, 
a covenant kept by memory, 
the most powerful renewable resource. 
Minds soothe and crack, 
leaving faults while awarding medals, 
can a grudge outlast love? 
Bright behind the shield of smog, 
the life force star hangs heavy, 
waiting for you to believe in her shine, 
yet again. 

The vile presses into the side of my thigh, 
I feel the burn, 
the slice from the glass is enough, 
for the poison and I to finally become one. 
A mirror image, 
the elixir and I, 
the damage we are capable of, 
finally dance together. 
Waiting is actually thrilling, 
what will it actually do? 
Whatever it may be, 
I know that I deserve it. 
Under the purple ribbon of stars, 
the nighttime wind tickles my hair, 
and I feel the air constrict in my lungs. 
Sweet peace, 
at last, 
my strength will never overcome this. 
I'm sorry, 
I'm sorry, 
I'm sorry. 
Paths I forged in pain, 
brain lapse and forgetting who I am, 
but I can no longer hurt, 
anyone, or myself, no longer. 
It may seem you need me, 
but I left the sum of all my good parts, 
in faces my body created, 
to carry the fire, 
and they'll be better off without my poor example. 
Sure, 
mistakes aren't our full value, 
mishaps and markings of darkness, 
doesn't overshadow all of our light. 
I know this, 
I know, 
I know, 
but sometimes the weight is too much. 
Standing, facing the bones of ideations, 
I outreach my hand, 
and they refuse my touch, 
and the poison crawls up my throat. 
Expelling it's acid, 
I'm foaming at the mouth, 
not sure if the rejection brings relief or disappointment. 
Gratitude brings me to my knees, 
bewildered that fate will make me face another day, 
scars and ugliness be dammed, 
I'm meant to be here after all. 
Watching the frame of the one I called to me fade away, 
dawn breaks like the sweat on my brow. 
I'm alive, 
I'm alive, 
I'm alive, 
and it's time to dig myself out. 

Taunting the morning star with thunder, 
a white sears through the sky at sunrise. 
Electric. 
Shockingly silent, 
flashes spread through the field of vision. 
The boom drowns the sound of the rain. 
Submerge. 
Baptized with a new day, 
blessed with hydrated grounding. 
Sinking into the idea that you can begin again. 
Renewal. 
Five o'clock in the morning, 
a new month, 
a full moon, 
Summer. 
Blooming and blossoming, 
the ebb and flow time and seasons,
yet the same themes reoccurring. 
Teasing the timeline shift with another ritual, 
a card pull that echos the sky, 
Rabbit, Rabbit.  

Burning it all to the ground is a trigger reaction, 
to emotions finally being felt. 
Analytics are usually my style, 
when reading the cards I've been dealt. 
This damn moon and retrograde are screaming, 
telling me it's time to let it all through one last time. 
Gentle going inward, 
naming all of the emotions that are mine. 
Accountability is crucial, 
consistency is key. 
That's never been my issue, 
my biggest problem has always been me. 
The crown weighs heavy upon the head of self sabotage, 
yes, I own the title. 
Typically it's about cord cutting and no contact, 
but facing it all has become vital. 
So sure, these planets and lunation, 
have me in a sweet surrender. 
I am looking myself in the eye, 
holding myself back from running to a bender. 
I want the universe to hold it's promise, 
that this too shall pass. 
I swear that I mean everything I say, 
I'm showing all of the work to pass the class. 
My contracts are signed, 
written by my own hand. 
Forward is the direction I choose, 
I hope my being catches up to understand. 

The gate has been locked for a reason, 
the depths are more than I can explain or understand, 
and I know that you'd drown in my ocean. 
It's not that I am a siren, 
I am not calling you to me, 
just to watch you perish. 
Instead I am huddled in a cave, 
hiding from you,
knowing I am the master of self destruction. 
I have been able to reflect, 
defect, 
shape shift, 
for as long as I can remember. 
My reflection has never been mine, 
instead it has always belonged to those who held the perception of me, 
I decided that was truth. 
So the key is somewhere at the bottom of the sea, 
I'll sit on the edge with my toes in, 
watching it reflect the moonlight as the current ripples though. 
You mean well, 
wanting to fish it out, 
unlock the portal that I turned my back to. 
You want to catch me before I dive head first into the rocks, 
meant for the sailors, 
meant for you. 
But no, 
I can't let you in, 
seeing me fully is too much for me to bear. 
So keep it locked and let me lie, 
sunbaked and salted over, 
holding onto a song that will never be sung inside my throat. 
I'll wave to you when you pass, 
I promise, 
the gate is locked for a reason.

Haze, thick like sludge coats over reason. 

Help. 

A smoke signal, a pop gun, somebody, 
anybody? 
Help. 

Calling to arms and taking up space, 
it's amazing how loud silent cries can actually be, 
while being muffled by the tar that melts over mouths. 

The sun is too close. 
Flight patterns, too near. 

The moon has abandoned in the blaze of rays and the timeless face-off persists. 
Depression disguises itself as the shimmering star that bursts so brightly, 
that it blinds. 
Grinding my teeth on the galaxy I look down upon the ocean admiring and fearing the depth in one gulp. 

Help. 

Croaking after a waterless week the dryness of my mouth mimics the sand on the shore that lays before the overbearing current. 
Drowning seems more fun than this. 
Indulging on the sludge, it's more sweet than bitter, like diving into the rip tides head first on a blistering day. 
Losing my senses is a temporary delight because reason awaits and I'd rather hit snooze. 

Help. 

My reflection is weathered and I could have sworn my eyes were clearer, my smile wider, my stance stronger. 
When I was surfing the Milky Way and back stroking against the tide as it refused to come in. 
The schism happened and now I am left wondering if the void was ever real or if it's destined to remain hollow, bottomless. 

Help. 

The wheel keeps turning and I cannot find solid ground that is consistent let alone strong enough to bear all of my weight. 
My stature is meek but gravity is mighty pulling me through the perils of my mind. 
Haze, haze, thicker than before elegantly blankets me. 
It's a trick. 
I should know. 

Surrender. 
White flags, 
hands up, 
don't shoot. 

Help. 

I went to delete my entire account but convinced myself to call for pause - so that is where I have settled.

Thanks again for being here,

with sincere gratitude,

Stephanie

How do you think we know when something will expire? 
What is the science behind the date? 
We know the milk will eventually curdle itself, 
yet we know ahead of time when it will reach that state. 
But what if we knew the date of our demise? 
Would it be something we would actually consider? 
Would we push it all for just one more day, 
or would time just go to the highest bidder? 
It's weird how we put expectations on time, 
we try to fill ever second so it doesn't go to waste. 
Like natural preservatives in human form, 
decisions made with haste. 

My arms are heavy but my mind is weaker, 
I am carrying far too much. 
Conflicting perspectives swim inside my chest, 
I could spontaneously combust. 
Like it would be a surprise,
the explosion seems aptly timed.
Appropriate is the understatement of the century, 
but I will keep my being tightly lined. 
I cannot chase, explain, scream, or cry anymore, 
the point has lost the plot. 
The moon phases and energy promised, 
now just seems like one big long shot. 
If I could sleep for eternity I would, 
I just don't know where to unload. 
The defeat has sunk onto my shoulders with everything else, 
I don't have enough to match what is owed. 
So tie the bags to my ankles, 
let me drag the weights along. 
I filled it all by myself, 
nobody wants to hear this sad song. 

Fancy seeing you here, 
a scoff at a lone hung mirror. 
A personal hell awaits me as I turn away, 
my very own museum, 
of mistakes. 
Isn't it a joke? 
Being someone who can take it all in, 
means your the one who carries all of the blame, 
from playground misunderstandings to much worse. 
Accountability is cursed upon the self aware, 
ownership of every small scuffle, 
empathy oozes from us so easily. 
And then, we mess up, 
we mess up big, 
and the same grace is never afforded. 
So we frame every mistake, 
large, 
or, 
small, 
to reflect upon at random. 
Here it is, my hall of shame, 
the dunce caps, 
the branding. 
It doesn't matter if the lights go out, 
and I sit still in the corner, 
something will still highlight the worst. 
I'll never escape it, 
no, 
humanness is a crime alone in a place like this. 
The trophies are backordered, 
but the images are projected, 
seared into concrete. 
Forgiveness is just a bandaid, 
a new coat of paint, 
upon the tarnished soul. 
The walks around always seem to be in a circle, 
so that you have to keep looking yourself in the eye. 
I tilt my chin upward, 
fancy seeing you here. 

Pour the chemicals 
lay the flowers 
leave the shade 
stay for minuets or hours. 
Let the sun 
bleach through the shadows 
leaving the shapes 
curated in place. 
The negative space 
reveals the memory 
of the object once 
held still. 

My body is a diagonal, 
I can feel my toes at the corner of the bed on your side. 
The way we hung up the phone stung, 
and I am filthy with pride. 
I want you to chase me, 
to show me you care. 
Instead it's been hours of silence, 
all I am left with is a blank stare. 
So no, I won't wait up, 
and I will take up all of this space. 
Stewing in my cycle of thoughts, 
I make sure my body is purposefully placed. 
Maddening, it is, 
how I am just stuck lying here. 
I know I'll have to get up to pee, 
and you'll come home with air to clear. 
Or you'll play dumb, 
and leave the tension where it hangs. 
And I will hold it in and play dead, 
both of us hiding our fangs. 
In the end I will turn down your blankets, 
I have lost the spiteful plot. 
Because in the end, I want you on your side, 
even if I can sometimes be a lot. 
So no my body will curve on it's side, 
and not cut through on a slant. 
Sometimes I want to be angry forever, 
but with you, I just can't. 

There's a concave of our bodies, 
I imagine, 
settling into where we sleep. 
A perfect imprint, 
of suspended time, 
dutiful slumber. 
And then you're not there, 
sometimes, 
not a lot, 
and I shift towards your imprint, 
to settle on your side. 
The blankets feel heavier, 
yet I know that's in my head, 
and I pull on them tightly around me. 
You are rarely away for fun, 
trips aren't your typical thing, 
but overtime is a constant call. 
So I will snuggle in, 
shift my weight, 
trying to match the shape you usually make. 
Falling asleep on your side of the bed, 
romantic and bittersweet, 
but overall a quiet luxury to have you to miss.