How many days have I awakened
to find your face hidden by the Morning News,
your fingers blackened by its ink.
You are engrossed with the details
of a news story; yet I sit across from you
with worry lines crinkling the folds of my eyes.
Haven't you noticed tears sliding down my face,
beading up on the top of our butcher-block table?
The Morning News is your intimate companion,
your early morning lover. Is it a better lover
than me? I watch you caress it
with your fingers, nuzzle it against your cheek
while I hunger for one glance, for one word.
One of these days,
you might find yourself discarded
like the crumpled pages of an old newspaper,
tossed away like yesterday's stories.