Patterns

1. Waking up is an improbable act.

I find it hard to believe that another

day has begun despite my conviction

that life should have died in its sleep.

2. I leave coffee for you on the table,

two sugars, just the way you like.

The steam curls where your fingers will touch,

lonely warmth searching for its companion.

3. I phone the Boss and leave a message on His machine:

“I know you called him into work, but he's got stuff

to do here. Please, let him come home.”

No response; must be Peter's day off.

4. I should have tried harder, no matter what

you said about fighting what I couldn’t see.

Maybe if I’d found something to hit, you’d

be on the other side of the statistics.

5. I slam a fist onto the table, furious that you

couldn't wait for me. We made a promise,

sealed with metal and saliva, sacred til we part.

What could I possibly love instead of us?

6. I pass the day in a slow trickle, unable to lift

my head high enough to see the future.

It stretches on, a sure and uncertain minefield,

and you’ve left me alone in the foxhole.

7. I curl a hand into your place on our bed,

untouched all these months, like the coffee

you won't ever come for. I find peace in

the truth, but I can only face it blind.

1. Waking up is an improbable act.

I find it hard to believe that another

day has begun despite my conviction

that life should have died in its sleep.

#poetry