Two weeks without it

Two weeks without it,

and this morning I woke without the reach,

without the hand that used to find it in the dark,

without the reflex

that made the day feel like it had a point.

My arm stayed down.

The silence was so loud

I had to turn on the shower

just to give it somewhere to go.

Fourteen days of hours

piling up like they've been waiting

for something to fill them,

and I thought I'd feel lighter,

thought the space would feel like winning,

thought I'd know what to do

with all this time

I suddenly own.

But the day opens like a mouth

with nothing in it,

no reason to reach,

no reason to move forward,

just the terrible clarity

of a morning

that's entirely mine,

and I'm standing in it

like I'm standing in the wrong room,

like I left the door open somewhere

and now I'm looking for a way back

to the life where there was something

to want so badly

that I didn't have to think about

what I actually wanted.

The shower keeps running.

I could get in.

I could do anything.

Instead, I stand here

in the steam

and miss the person

I was trying not to be.