I lay in our bed
your memory hovering above me like a fog
it seems silly – a king size bed
without you
the dogs are glued to my side
leaving your half of the bed free
Your pink terrycloth robe
hangs on the back of the closet door
Sometimes I put it on
and burrow into my love for you
but then when I take it off
it looks even sadder, lonelier, hanging back up
334 days since your last breath
somehow I am still here
the world is still coming apart at the seams
only now it’s not just our own private world
that is imploding
You would have hated this year
Every morning I wake up
on my side of the bed
I glance over, but you’re still gone
there is this moment –
an involuntary flash of disappointment
that I still exist in this world