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Mar 2023
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 can’t kiss
or tuck her in. So, you drown
in your fifth of gin.
sandra wyllie
Written by
sandra wyllie  56/F
(56/F)   
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