I’m falling in the rhythm of not waking up early
to make tea with milk along with my black coffee.
I don’t miss the way you used to tease me
about tasting bitter in the mornings.
But it’s true I’m colder now than when
turning over meant rolling into you.
Now an added duvet fills your space.
While you were here, we kept the blinds drawn. Your things filled
the whole room. When you took them
I found the patterns in the carpet. The change
that once slipped from your pockets still waits where it has fallen.
Writing lately has been a really unique experience of taking bits of what I know and trying to figure out what makes the most compelling work. (Ex: I miss everything about having S. here, even the teasing. But this poem’s narrator needed to have started moving forward. So…poem.)