When you're done with chores,
Taking the dishes to the sink,
gently rubbing each until one's
left that you mindlessly rub-
Is it true that I'm gone?

Albums of long lost memories
kept aside your closet beneath
neatly folded clothes- when touched,
you avoid them intentionally-
Is it true that I'm gone?

When pages of book flap in wind-
passing by you beside window,
your vacant gaze upon a line-
that stirred thoughts behind time,
Is it true that I'm gone?

Why is it that your coffee
left on table often gets cold?
Distracted- you sense an hour
passes by like your secret brief sigh.
Is it true that I'm gone?

Late at night, when lights go off-
birds go numb, in screaming silence,
is it that you still make a wish
for me in your dreams?
Is it true that I'm gone?

He expects her everyday
longer than hope.
Sitting on benches,
leaving coffee cold.

In the end,
what matters only is-
how well you look
into the eyes of
your child,

being brave to stand
as a hero or
ashamed as a villain.