The Space Beside

The drying rack,

my hand went out,

for the other one.

A quiet lack.

No second mug, no doubt.

Just me, now, done.

The space beside the bed,

still holds the ghost

of a book, spine down,

unread.

The dust, a fine white host,

where something settled, known.

It's not the big things,

not the shouts or tears,

but the small shifts,

the sudden stings.

The quiet accumulation of years

in empty lifts.

The second pillow, flat,

and never fluffed.

A slow, cold sink.

Just this, then that.

Everything, finally unhuffed.

A single, dull, forgotten clink.