Her kitchen has an island of white stone

Her kitchen has an island of white stone

and copper pots that have never seen a flame.

I’m sitting in the dark, entirely alone,

scrolling through the hollow of her name.

My thumb goes numb against the glass

while I drink tap water from a jar.

I watch the curated moments pass

and wonder why I’ve stayed just where I am.

The blue light stains the ceiling tiles

and reflects in the sink where I eat.

I’m measuring my life in miles

against a world that’s way too neat.