The fridge door looks weird today,
A note that says "sorry, got carried away."
The handwriting looks a little familiar.
There isn't a person ever really here.
They knew the mornings that needed light and laughter.
My days are spent feeling looked after,
There is a reason to wake up,
A note to reach for before the teacup.
I don't recall replying, yet the notes appear,
And this goes on for almost a year.
The penmanship, in places, looks like mine.
I stay awake to catch whoever writes in between the lines.
Dawn appears there is not a soul in sight,
A note appears again, who must have the might?
To one who lingers where no one’s ever seen,
Ink that marks blank spaces in between.
In these bits of paper and joy-filled days,
I finally saw sunshine and all its ways.
The hands I had been waiting to catch,
Looked just like mine to match.