At three in the morning

It awakens him at three in the morning,

first with the flash of anxiety edged

with panic, then the dark, rainy gray

of resignation. He moves his hand,

touching the cold sheets next to him,

cold when he wants the warmth

of what he knew. The laughter

that was has fled, leaving a dismal

silence to create its own vacuum,

its own void of memory. He considers

the possibility that it is he who lies

buried in the white coffin.

This poem is submitted to the One Word Blog Carnival hosted by Peter Pollock, and the word today is grief.

It is also submitted to Open Link Night at dVerse Poets. The links will be live at 2 p.m. Central time today.

Photograph by Petr Kratochvil via Public Domain Pictures. Used with permission.