The Reading Room

"When I say love, I mean the kitchen light you leave for me when I come home at night; the soup you save, though dinner's long been through."

"The bus was late; the road was full of rain, you drew a crooked heart upon the glass; I watched it blur and vanish down the pane."

"You showed up with a paper bag of fries, and said, “I've brought you dinner. Don't be rude.” I'd spent the afternoon rehearsing lies."

"You didn't tell me grief would make me strong, or give me reasons why I shouldn't weep; you washed the cups. You played a quiet song."

"I put your coffee mug away in June, and told myself the shelf looked better bare; now every morning, reaching for a spoon, I find a little absence waiting there."

"You said their name; the room became too small for everything I'd hoped and never said; I smiled and made a joke about it all while losing something only in my head."

"I said it in the doorway after ten, and watched you flinch before you turned away; I've heard those words a thousand times since then."

"I washed the sheets one ordinary day, and watched the blue soap gather into foam; the smell of you went quietly away."

"You say you do not want a birthday cake, but steal the sugared roses anyway; you look surprised at all the fuss we make."

"The café where we hid from sudden rain has changed its chairs and cleared the picture wall; I went inside and felt a small, sharp pain."