It's five-thirty
when I walk
barefoot and
hesitant

eyes wide open
against the
dark

towards the place
I last kissed
you

I can hear
your lungs
lift and fall

lift and fall

like I fell
for you

I am wearing
one of your
shirts

it's sleeves hang
loose

I can almost
wrap them
around me
twice

my stomach
clenches and thinks
of breakfast

cups of coffee
and newspapers
to argue over

our kitchen is
bright and clean
red gingham curtains
like the ones
little girls

dream of

scrubbed wooden
table and chairs

each with a leg
that needs to
rest upon
a book

I'll pass you the
milk and sugar

smile into
my cereal
bowl

tell you where
you left you
car keys

stand in the
doorway waving
you off to work

I reach down
through the black-
ness

to where I think
your blanket
is

searching for the
soft corner of
warmth

my fingers touch
nothing but
air

my feet are
freezing

I hear the clock
strike six

and wake
up