You're Not There
Sometimes when I wake up, I reach for you beside me.
But you're not there.
Sometimes when I come home from work, I look for you as I open the door.
But you're not there.
Sometimes when I go the movies, I look for you, to ask what you want to drink.
But you're not there.
Sometimes I read a joke, and turn to tell you, to hear your laugh.
But you're not there.
When I go to bed, I look for you.
But you're not there.
I came home from work that day, and called out to you.
You didn't answer.
I opened the bedroom door, and saw you laying there.
You didn't move.
I saw your book, the glass of water, our cat beside you.
And I feared.
Then I saw the portable grill, the charcoal burnt to ash.
And I knew…
You weren't there.
