Morning
The kettle sings a lonely tune,
the steam curls up, then fades too soon.
Your mug sits still beside the sink—
I pour for one, and try not to think.
The sun breaks in with quiet grace,
but light feels wrong without your face.
The bed’s half-made, the air is cold.
The clock is ticking. I feel old.
Noon
The world is loud with moving parts—
the traffic, screens, the market carts.
But in the noise, I hear your name
in every echo just the same.
I catch myself about to say
a thought you would have loved today.
But there’s no answer in the air,
just silence shaped like you, still there.
Evening
The table set, though just for me.
A seat remains where you should be.
I make the meal, but leave the spice—
you always liked it mild, not twice.
The sky folds into softer blue,
and I fold in, still missing you.
The news plays on, the window’s closed,
and still, the ache has not deposed.
Night
The lamp burns low. The world unwinds.
I chase you through the darker lines—
the dream half-formed, the scent, the sigh,
the phantom weight when I lie by.
And as the stars press into black,
I want the one thing I can’t have back:
not just your voice, or touch, or smile,
but you beside me—all the while.
