the glass in your hand is still
save a few nervous tremors
you sigh, and your exhale
is louder than the small voice of my
mother; all I can hear are tremors

you know, these glasses used to be your glasses
these plates were your plates
you used to stir these pots and pans
the weight of your absence hit me like a
freight train; like our situation

you are doing your best to be civil
which is what I find the saddest
don't you remember the terms of endearment
used fleetingly in red-cheeked encounters
whispered in expectant ears by foreign tongues

don't you remember the vows you took
the oath you pledged, every look

do you remember the life you had?

the difference between the casual touches of
your new life, and the cold rebuffal of the old
is striking me, to me

that is why I find it the saddest
years of mundane contentment and unassuming love
reduced to the void of careful distance and
cigarette ash; trying your best to be civil