Halved

After forty-six years of us,
somehow I thought the bed would stay
imprinted with your shape.
The sheets lie flat tonight.

Your glasses on the nightstand find
my fingers, my knotted face.
Perhaps these lenses can reveal
a glimpse of your bright world.

But these scorched eyes see only
a half-empty room,
every small memento smudged
by the last print of your thumb.