With You

There was a worn wooden floor, tiny sunlit yellow rooms. There were the echoes of laughter clinging to the cobwebs. A tomato plant, maybe basil. There were lost glasses, keys, the novel under the couch cushions. There was a threadbare cotton coverlet, halfway off the bed, your tousled hair. A glass of wine, left out all night. And there was you, always, when I slipped into the side of the bed that's cold.