Morning 4

Touching the bedsheet 

where your body had

laid that night, now

nothing but cold, empty

space; you left only muttering

your goodbyes, you’ve never 

been good with the 

awkward fatalities of leaving. 

I long for your touch, but the

bed covers block my hands

from getting there, so I 

lie in the morning darkness

and think about your eyes,

the green tint each

one holds, though blue

at first glance, the beauty

of how they look;

never quite locking eyes

with another’s pair. 

I make a coffee,

seeing your array of

plays on the table,

I don’t move them,

you have an order

within the mess,

I cannot mess the mess up!

I linger around the kitchen,

pretending I know

what I’m doing;

retreating back upstairs,

I find your body there,

the bedsheet is 

warm once again,

my hands have

something to touch. 

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