One day you'll wake up,
the sun will be bifurcated
by the Venetian blinds,
and it will be in your eyes.
You'll blindly reach across the bed
and touch only faintly-warm sheets.
The expectation of skin, of kin,
of the person who helped build you a family.
After all these years
how could he leave?
No, you're just being silly.
He's just up early,
making coffee.
You'll pry open your eyes
and gaze into the hall,
scanning for movement.
Scanning for anything at all.
Low beams of morning sun
cut through the room,
and the only things moving
are gently wafting motes
caught in it's brilliant web.
You'll want to call out,
maybe make a silly joke.
Ask him if he's making breakfast,
ask him if he broke the yolk,
but instead you say nothing
because at least with the silence
you can still cope
and the sound of your loving call
falling flat on the hall walls
will be enough to drive you mad.
A car drives off in the distance.
The sound is clear as day.
Clear as day.
Clear as the slatted sunlight
strewn across your face.
Clear as the last time.
Clear as the first time.
Clear as it ever could be.
A window to forever see through,
a door just for you.