It is in the warm curve of the covers,
The toothpaste spatter on the mirror,
The pair of pants left hanging over a chair,
As if you are only gone for an hour or two.

It is in the pictures stacked on the kitchen table
From last summer’s vacation,
The ones I meant to put away with neat corners and clever captions,
Where we are cracking crab legs and laughing over Merlot.

It is in the letters that still come addressed to you,
Though I have told the mailman you no longer live here,
The telephone messages that salesmen still leave,
Your catalogs from last Christmas with the pages still folded down.

It is in every morning I wake,
In every one-portion dinner I cook,
In the closet I cannot bear to open,
In the dog who sits by your chair and whines,
In every breath I draw and every word I utter:

The ache that is you.