Morning comes
without my permission.
Light rests its head on the counter.
It has learned to not disturb me.
I rinse my mug.
Yesterday thins,
slips down the sink drain,
which holds our silence
without spilling.
The room remembers you
in small ways.
Your chair is angled slightly away,
the air still shaped like a pause.
Grief is a clean, smooth surface.
I don’t know what to set down.
Outside, a neighbor waters their plants
cautiously,
as if they’ve learned that
too much care can drown a thing.
I relearn the weight of my hands again,
and how they answer
to only me now.