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.