It’s an hour since you left
the room this way
And it still looks like you—
half warm, half lived-in
yet somehow
complete.
It’s an hour since I’m here
sitting by the bed
that looks like me—
waiting for someone
to come back.
And complete it.
I haven’t touched it
except to gather up your smell.
Before it fades
into daylight
through the curtains
you carelessly(?) left open.
The silence has a strange weight to it.
The absence of your footsteps
as you rushed to find
a misplaced earring, a matching stole
the chaos you are so comfortable in
feels like the rhythm of my mornings.
The clock moves differently when you’re not home.
Each tick reassures me
you’ll be back in the evening
to recount your day
as I hold you close.
And listen to your heart.
Until then,
I’ll wait
in this half-lived room
that hums with the silence
you left behind
and your absence
sprawled beside me.
