I stumble into the morning ritual like
clockwork and press my face so far into the sports section
that I can smell the burning black ink from the printing press.
I shovel eggs and bacon
down my throat in such a manner that when I kiss her, the grease from the bacon leaves
a slimy residue on both our lips.
I do not stop to admire the way
the sunlight coming through the window hits her hair,
or how her smile
releases a thousand butterflies housed
somewhere between my stomach and my heart.
Work calls and I'm late so I rush out the door
and give her the generic “I love you” I've
mouthed for years, but she's crying behind the door
-I can hear it as the lock clicks. And the mailman
comes and the lawn grows and the children
grow up and graduate and she never truly knows how I feel
until it's too late, until she draws her last
breath at her deathbed
and looks at me with large full moon eyes
that say nothing more than
“Who Are You?”