I keep waiting,
getting more and more depressed
with each and every silence.
Every time my phone rings,
I answer it eagerly
hoping that he's
come to his senses.
I keep imagining
I hear cars in
the driveway and
run to the window
excited, then crushed
to find the street empty.
Late at night, as I
sit on my couch,
I could swear I hear
the doorknob turn
and I jump up, ready
to run into his arms.
My wine glass from
one week ago when
I asked him to hold me,
have a drink with me...
still sits by my computer.
I don't want anyone
to touch it.
His dead roses are still
displayed in a vase
on my kitchen table.
I should take those out,
I whisper to myself,
but it's an effort
to put one foot
in front of the other,
too much trouble.
It's much easier to
go back to bed and
only do what I have to.
I have no strength.
I don't want to eat,
don't want to breathe.
Sleep is the only thing
that brings relief
from the silence,
the silence I keep
expecting him to fill.
I can't bring myself
to believe that he's gone.
