I roll on to my side,
arising from slumber,
my hand caressing
the smooth sheet by my side,
the space
you’ve left behind,
to personify the hole in my life.
The uncreased pillow lies sullen and still,
refusing to yield to my embrace.
Devoid of your features,
your hair, your smell, your dribble.
The lone coffee mug,
standing upon the sink,
sending messages of steam into the air.
Little envelopes you’ve never opened,
wispy telegrams, you never read.
Our gray Kelvinator
stands lonesome by the wall
its shelves bare,
bereft of those little brown bottles
you used to delight in, on a hot summer afternoon.
And in the bedroom,
the rosewood almirah,
my grandmother’s bequest crouches into its corner,
with its belly half empty,
deprived of your measure of clothes.
And there is me,
in a house that’s all of a sudden
become too quiet for silence.
Lonely lips that miss being kissed.
Neglected arms that have forgotten to embrace.
Ignored hair that lack’s its luster.
Charcoal eyes, that never had its fill of you.
A defunct soul that has lost itself
somewhere in your memories.
