I miss you, is all.
I lie in bed, sideways, to make room for you when you sneak in in the small hours. Either the smell of afternoon tea clung to the sheets or I am dreaming. Funny how smells can rob you of orientation, and consciousness when the intensity is right.
Earlier, at four on the dot, I boiled tea leaves on an open fire. The house still smells balmy. There isn’t much use for sedatives now, I decide, my head sinking into a pillow, heavy with fond memories. That fine day at the beach, you in a not-suit and I in a not-dress, exchanging vows anyway. You made a promise that beat all sleep salves.
I hear the drone of a car engine in the distance. It doesn’t die after seven counts so I know it isn’t you. I have grown to love your peculiar ways, it seems.
I fall asleep.
In the morning I pour leftover tea into a cup. I make a mental note to stop preparing things for two, even if it helps.
I walk around the house to collect traces of your presence. The wet tub, the dirty dishes you left on the sink. Instinctively, I save the bed for last. I sit down and run my hand across your side, still ruffled and warm. I spend all my mornings like this, stirring the will to go through another day, and succeeding, because you made a promise. Sometimes trust, together with a thinning calendar, is enough.
Circa 2007
