My mornings were filled with you.
The moment I woke
to the hurried steps
of my dog in the early sun
to a half-burnt bagel
on a ceramic blue plate
to a subway car filled with eyes
riveted on some distant fantasy
to a stretch of sidewalk
on which I'd often run,
to a crowded silent elevator,
to a chair in a room
where I'd anxiously wait
for a girl with long curls
and a leather jacket
to walk through the door and smile
at me.

My mornings are still filled with you.
The moment I wake
with a heavy sigh,
to the reluctant steps of my feet
dragged by a dog in cold light,
to a kitchen where I stop mid-breakfast
to recall a smile a million miles away,
to a gasp that shakes my soul
with tears unbidden falling into my cereal.

You have gone and I am here
caught in a web of memories
quickly fading,
leaving me empty.