An old blue bed,
That offer's little sleep,
Is a place, where alone,
I recline to weep.

And arms, now vacant,
Hold little but air,
They fall weak and tremble,
Without you there.

These hands, once creative,
Little more than fill space,
Reduced to redundant,
For not touching your face.

So too lips of passion,
Now parched and drawn thin,
Are merely marking place,
Where your kisses have been.

Thus a barely beating heart,
Now all pounding is through,
Keeps time for the spasms,
Of longing for you.