I’m eating my last bowl of oatmeal, looking outside the window of a life that was meant for us. It’s perfectly framed:

You in the sunlit kitchen singing dad rock making ciabatta, swaying your small hips to rhythms still foreign to me

and I endlessly pondering how to fit all of it onto evenly spaced lines.

Love was delicious to you. The tomatoes you grew welcomed eating and everything else that needed to be tasted.

I was there to catch them with my clumsy hands when they at last fell, bringing you down with me to kiss the generous earth.

Now I’m waiting and twisting my cold spoon in circles until one day I hunger for something more than oats.