Come back before the coffee's gone cold on the sill,over every excuse I keep pouring instead of drinking it.Mornings are just longer hallways without your key in the door.Even the cat has stopped waiting by six.
Half the bed still holds your shape, stubborn as a bruise.Only I know how long a house can practice being empty.Move slow if you have to. I am not asking you to run.Everything else can wait. Come home.
The poet asked for: First one I've posted here. The left margin spells something — tell me if it's too cute or if it actually earns its keep.
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