Everyone tells you it happens at 3am
When the walls close in
And you hug your pillow too hard
Hoping it will keep you from falling apart
Without him there to hold you together
When really it happens at 8:30
On a Tuesday morning
Light pouring through the kitchen windows
You brush your hip on the counter
And it feels like his fingers
You drop your cup of tea
And forget what to do with your own hands.