Sunday, October 28, 2012

The Vacancy Grows

To a vacuum in the quiet of evenings
Cooking alone recalling
The conversations we used to have,
Like the tasting of the sauce.

A sink devoid of dishes,
A room where all you left
Was 70 cents on the desk.

The tent was folded away,
The counter without crumbs,
Your generic teabags waiting for boiling water
On your return, at tea time.

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