Your crumpled serviette
next to a white plate,
a piece of brown toast, buttered,
The knife streaked with butter
lying casually on the edge.
In front of your plate
a half-drunk cup of tea
traces of your lips staining the rim.
Your chair pulled away from the table,
Sun streaming through the window behind me,
illuminates the place where you sat.
All is silent
apart from the humming of the fridge in the kitchen.
Far in the distance
I hear birds faintly,
greeting the new day.
And I wonder…
How long will you be gone?