Quiet mourning. The kitchen clock ticks on and on, measuring moments I throw away, like garbage in the trash.
A near empty coffee mug needs a refill of warm spicy liquid laced with cream. Soothing. I sip and contemplate the day.
Ahead of me, without you is a blank canvas to fill. I will.
Even without you things happen. Others stumble into my world, as you once did, leave a mark on my soul, then move on.
But your mark on my canvas is huge, and contains every color, though it is not black. I must paint around it, and over it. It is permanent, and I want it to be.
Quiet mourning in the morning. The kitchen clock ticks on and on. Keeping time as time keeps me, painting on my canvas until it’s done and I am where you are again.