Poem: On Waking Alone.
It’s not real, so it’s fake. But we live it every day.
I wake, but
not to you;
just
to
the sun coming
round
the corner
to warm the bedspread
we argued about—
the concession
came from your side,
so it’s cream crochet
with the fringe you knot
when you’re irritated.
The sun
finds me
s e a r c h i n g
the
walls
for no answers,
and it finds
me,
quite
a.lone
The wood—
it’s pine!,
you told me—
looks
like home, but
it is
freezing by the fire.
it is
plastic flowers drenched
in expensive French perfume
I never asked for.
it has
a faux-mahogany finish.
only you
could ever
tell.
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