To wake up naked, alone,
tracing the empty outline
next to you with your finger
is to think of the mourning doves
who are no doubt outside under the feeders now
and imagine you are in communion
because you imagine you could understand their calls.
To stumble from room to room this early
without needing to be quiet;
to use her favorite curses for the junkie upstairs
and his parade of suspect visitors;
to put off breakfast until this aching
is so inadequately addressed; this is how
you get through a week without her
being here, all while knowing
there’s more time like this ahead.
Knowing it will end, but not soon enough.
Knowing she’ll come home,
but not soon enough.
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