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The granite is polished, a cold, speckled gray,

where she’s zesting a lemon to finish the day.

The yellow is falling like dust on the wood,

and I’m standing here trying to act like I should.

Her mail is a pillar of order and light,

with bills that are paid and a future in sight.

I look at the stack and I feel like a thief,

bringing my dirt and my sideways-long grief.

The kitchen is bright and the copper is clean,

a stage for a life that is sturdy and keen.

I’m a guest in a world where the water is clear,

wondering how I got stuck over here.