Some nights I sleep alone,
not because there’s no one here with me in bed.
She sleeps next to me in my bed, but I know
that she’s thousands of miles away, on the other side
of an ocean, with people I don’t know.
I do know their faces, because she’s taken
out albums and stacks of loose photos;
for the first few minutes, she’ll explain
who they are
where they are
how she misses them.
I miss her as much as they do, or more,
when each of them smiles as they
whisper to me that she belongs to them.
They remind me that she has a life already;
I’m only here for comfort
until she can be with people she loves again.