When did you start sleeping upstairs?      Alone.
Your body adjusting to a couch and not a lover. 
You hold a pillow against your chest. Across
the room is your desk. You think about working
late into the night and writing down this feeling
which has no star.

I wrote "The Sky Upstairs" because so many relationships fail. When did things begin to fade? Did things ever shine like a star? This is also a poem about work and finding the energy to turn feelings into words.