in the morning as the sun jumps over the horizon as the sleepers crawl out of your eyes and the coffee percolates.
She's not there in the noon as calls fly over the wire and papers stack up like flames of a fire in a room filled with binders and files with a wall lined with subway tiles.
She's not there in the evening as you stare at the empty chair eating the frozen dinner you microwaved. Running your fingers through a memory you shaved.
She's not there in the night as the moon sits flat as a crepe. And you look at a show that you taped. The sheets on her side of the bed don't pucker. And you canβt kiss or tuck her in. So, you drown in your fifth of gin.