The Loss Of You

This morning, I forgot and placed two mugs on the breakfast table. I poured tea in mine and watched the absence of steam from yours. I wept.

Your clothes are in the same spot. The hangers have little room to breathe. A coat you wore is missing. I’ve tried to find an identical one but can’t. I break down because of this.

I have to relearn how to be alone. The tenderness of you. Your laughs. How you’d listen before seeking solutions. These are all gone. Even if I were to find them in others, it wouldn’t relieve me.

My life has darkened. Parts of me are resting with you, and I can’t dig them out. People will leave, but I can’t walk away from myself. I’ve fallen into a sinkhole and am expected to crawl back out.

Lights are too bright. Food is bland. A space where you sat becomes a space where I can’t be. The candles melt and clutch each other. I fall half asleep and can’t hold you.