A great sadness creeps into my room each morning
A sadness propelled forward by my waking to your silence.
I lay there,
listening,
though I'm never sure for what
until I remember -
once in this house lived another.
And I pad softly down the hallway
making my breakfast routinely -
porridge on the stove top, kettle boiling for tea.
Feeding my dog,
sitting down to watch t.v.
When did my mornings commence to be this?
When did I stop waking
to the smell of burnt toast
or to the sound of a running tap?
When did my mornings become so hollow
and so picturesquely lonely?
In every morning making breakfast
when the kettle boils and i don't offer you tea
a great sadness comes upon me
and I sit at the table in silence,
listening to the tap
drip
drip
drip
and nobody comes down the stairs.