I'M MAKING nachos in your toaster oven. The chips fall in the pan without a problem. Beans, evenly distributed (if I do say so myself.) Salsa- good to go. Then the cheese. Generic brand shredded cheese blend. I dangle my (washed) fingers into the zip-lock bag, grab a generous pinch and rain mild cheddar down on my gourmet meal. And I feel the tears building. "No," my conscious scolds, "you will not cry over shredded cheese." I add another pinch for flavor, then another to assert dominance. I slide the pan into the tiny oven- triumphant! But the next task breaks me. I freeze when I try to adjust the heat setting. I hear your voice so clearly, like you're still calling from the next room: "you have to press the TOAST button, it cooks much faster."  The tears start to roll. I think about how excited you were when cheese bubbled perfectly- "just a little brown, ever so slightly crispy." We would joke about your persnickety preferences, likely a product of your superior taste. Of course, you would have appreciated anything I made for you, but it was always better when the dish matched the idea in your head...when I made it like you would have made it (if you were only well enough to cook for yourself again.) In the present, I poke the TOAST button and flee the kitchen as to not cry in front of the smothered chips. I sit on the sofa and break down, gasping in childish sobs. "I miss her," I wail to an empty house. Warm tears coat my cheeks in the air-conditioned room. I feel so small. I feel so foolish for crying over stupid, little things. I feel so... so... A bell dings in the kitchen. I wipe my sleeve across my face and traipse back to the toaster. Hand into oven mitt, mitt onto pan, pan onto table. I grab the plastic tubs of sour cream and guacamole from the fridge and a spoon from the drawer that sticks a little when you try to open it. I pick the non-wilted bits off the head of lettuce and rinse them under the faucet. I finish the recipe. I pull out a chair. I sit down to nachos for one.

They say pictures paint a thousand words,
But I'd rather hear the ones drawn by your lips,
The ones lost in the movement of your hips.
As if the air your lungs exhale,
Was the only air mine knew how to inhale.
As if the melody of the sound waves your vocal chords send my way,
Were in perfect harmony with the sound of my heart beating...
... Broken and out of sync, like it's on the brink of collapse

And I know that pictures paint a thousand words but actions paint a million more
But the only action I seem to recall is my hand holding yours,
Pressed up against the wall, your lips pressed against mine,
Not drawing anything more but emotions, raw pure affection, pure movie magic, pictures in motion.

Pictures do paint a thousand words but you left me blind,
And now all I can do is hear the words one by one, haunting my every thought,
Leaving me a faint image, the memory of a picture painting no words at all.

Three words
Fear, love, anguish
All synonyms to my mind
Memories of how you vanish
How you banish my very thoughts
Distinguish yourself amongst my soul
The sound of your footsteps fading away
Like symphonies on repeat that beat
to the sound of my broken heart
Keeping it alive, just too barely
Yet enough to remember
That you were tough
And I was weak