We do not make love
 when every spring
 in the bed is an uncomfortable
 truth.

 Before you sleep
 I massage your face.
 It is alabaster.
 I kiss its cold surface.

 As routine demands
 you turn your back
 on me, pull
 the duvet towards you.

 I smooth the duvet
 into your curves,
 and kiss the meshed fibres,
 where once, years ago,
 I would have smoothed
 your hot nakedness.

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