When the morning alights

empty and sterile, and

the parmesan is not left

on the counter like it always

used to be,

when the milk is not

tepid and spoiled from being

out all night

and I no longer pick

your socks up from the floor

or unscatter the books at your side

of the bed,

when the cream drapes you hated divide

to deliver sanitary white sun on

the untarnished IKEA table

that you’re not around to

clutter with recipes, coupons, and receipts,

I become the mess.