I set an empty plate on the other side of the table
I’ve been expecting her all day, the least she could do is show up for dinner
I pour her some wine, I know she hates red
I write a card and lay out some flowers in case it’s something I said

It’s growing late so I lay out all of the dishes
I eat alone and my hopes diminish as I play our song with no one there to hear it
I even made mashed potatoes, her all-time favorite
I put the wrapped box with her name on it where I know she’ll see it

I end up drinking both glasses
Hell why not the bottle
Another year has passed and I can’t bury the sorrow
Of the choice she made not to wake up on the ‘morrow

Is it my fault she left?
She said I just wasn’t enough this time
But I tried my best
I’ve never been able to get the guilt off of my chest

No one knows,
This hobby of mine,
Where I write down thoughts,
And try to rhyme.

I may be very uncomfortable,
When sharing a poem with you,
Because I feel my thoughts,
Should always stay true.

So if I ever shared,
A poem with you,
I shared it because,
I felt comfortable with you.

the air is heavy
with an unspoken desire
for his tanned skin
upon hers
a shady block
of warm breeze,
a dusty corner
and her back against it
- heaven.

gentle kisses that tasted like summer
now dot her memory
along with flashes of squinting
liquid honey coloured eyes
framed within lashes
that remind her of the sort of thing she'd like want to feel fluttering against her shoulder
first thing
on a sunny sunday morning;
a nose that she'd like to have nuzzled against the crook of her neck

all swatches of filtered sunlight
and unfamiliar hands
soft lips and hurried goodbyes
- imprints of a translucent yellow