I wake up each morning with my arm reaching for you.
You’re not there. I wake up alone and go through the day alone.
One coffee cup.
One bathroom towel.
One breakfast plate.
One seat at the table.
One glass of wine.
One side of the bed.
Some mornings before I open my eyes, I hope it is not real.
But it is. Endless
I force myself to live, but my soul fights me. The conflict is always there.
But you are not.