we'll talk about my heart tomorrow

it is the book half

read,

turned

on its face, waiting

for you

to read more,

it is

your purse

on the table, open

from when

your hand last entered

for a brush,

or phone,

or lipstick.

it is the cup on the counter,

three sips gone,

the note

on the door.

the cold food

for tomorrow on

the shelf.

it's the soft dent in the pillow

and bed

where you slept.

it's this and more

that defines your absence.

we'll talk about

my heart

tomorrow.