Pass go and collect nothing.

I had become
Accustom to
The extra space in my bed
And the way my sheet tightened
Around the curves of my shoulders
And waking up with my arm
Comforting air
But I came
To realise
That I had forgotten just
What it was like to be near
Until I found the book
Of poetry you wrote for me
And found the letter
I had written for you
And remembered how you
Stroked my leg
As pen touched to paper

So I
May as well
Set up home
At square one.