Dead arm

I remember waking in the night, briefly
as if something had fluttered past me.
My arm, stretched above my head
was dull and lifeless.
Held under my head, it was separate and bloodless
sodden with weight.
I lurched my shoulder,
wrangling it up onto my chest
suddenly frightened
waiting for the trickle of lifeblood,
the sharp sparks and cracks of awakening.
I lay there with my dead arm
breathing heavily
feeling the indifference of our end
cold and without feeling
slumped on my chest.