Sundays are the worst.
I wake up, in my clothes, and think.
In the kitchen, I cut uporanges,
and put them into a bowl,
and think about how much youloved clementines.
I make a cup of tea
to ease the permanent lumpin my throat,
but it sits in the mug, staring at me,
until itgrows cold and I dump it into the sink.
Being alone is hell,
butI am relieved that there is no one running about the house,
askingfor a smile and some bread.
I walk back up the stairs,
in mycold bare feet,
trying not to step on the glass
from the brokenpicture frame
I threw down the hall.
Only a second has passedsince I awoke.
In my room, I cannot get dressed.
The purplesweater I wore when we ate in New Haven.
You picked out the jeans atthe mall,
and the yellow button-down shirt you complimented twice.
Oh well,
the sky makes me think of you.
And the grass, andbrass buttons,
and the white puffs of air that come out of yourmouth
    when it is cold.
I take the phone off the hook sothat you cannot not call,
to apologize for the dirty dishes in thesink,
and the broken glass, and the yellow shirt, and theclementines,
and the bleeding of my heart.