You forgot
to write down your schedule.
I saw your empty
coffee cup, your broken
glasses by the bread box
and the porch light left on.

Your side of the bed
was rumpled. I smoothed
it out before washing
your hair and dander
from the tub and stubble
from the sink. Your clothes missed

the hamper. I stooped down
and put them with mine.
I turned off the weather
channel and fired a dark
load in before smelling
a hint of your cologne.

When you’re sleeping, I count
the syllables, strain
to hear the whispering
blood, the verbs pulsing
in nouns, verbalizing
the thrumming in your eyes.

When it’s late, I log
into your chequing
account to find out
where you might’ve gone.
Sometimes when you’re here,
I forget.

Zetetic separator

—Pamela is the author of three poetry collections: Something from Nothing, (Writing Knights Press) Woodwinds, (Lipstick Press) and Matrimonial Cake (Red Dashboard). When Pamela is not writing, she’s sleeping. She believes sleep is death without the commitment. Pamela lives in BC with her husband and 2 children.

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