Your absence fills every inch of this space.
It seeps between the floorboards,
and crawls inside the cupboards
where your favorite Rooster mug sits idle,
and into the fridge, where a half-empty
bottle of root beer patiently waits,
and the drawer where we kept your pills,
and the basket of socks on the closet shelf,
and the wooden box on the dresser that holds
your treasures - a class ring, an old watch,
a few foreign coins, and the bola tie you
bought at Monument Valley.
And especially, it hovers in the
hallway cubby where you sat daily
and silently shared your heart,
bringing beauty to life as if from nothing,
your hand swirling smoothly
over canvas and paper.
And where now,
morning sunlight crosses your easel
and the table with its clutter
of paint tubes, and brushes, and palette knives,
all poised and ready for your return,
and I do not have the heart to tell them
that they, like me, will never feel
the warmth of your hand again.
