HBH 157

Next to her he lies Each morning in waking dreams. Phantom love, long lost.   It is worrying how often the first addled thoughts in my brain each day as I drift painfully back into consciousness revolve around one particular woman - and a woman who is, how shall I say, a particularly inappropriate object for such affection.  I suppose it's the old end-of-year wistfulness again, that instinctual urge to find a bed-warming companion for the long cold winter ahead.   [I originally wrote 'lover' in the last line, but that breaches the ruddy syllable count rules.  I'm not sure that I don't prefer it, though.]