I’m in aisle two, 
 couple frozen pizzas under my arms,
 when I turn the corner on my way to grab pretzels. 
 We could heat up the chicken, make some rice, cut vegetables.
  
 My mind is on our dinner, my stomach growls
 as a realization snaps my rose-colored glasses in half,  
 fresh memories that haven’t yet gotten their legs...    
  
           We don’t have a cart. 
           You’re not ordering 
           lunchmeat at the deli.  
           I’m all alone. 
           I’m cooking for one.

           You’re not here, 
           at the store, with me. 
  
 Later that night, I put my dishes in the sink. 
 I’m finishing a show you gave up on. 
 Here comes this joke, out of nowhere, and so smart.   
  
 Without thinking, I laugh from my belly, showing my teeth, 
 and turn to see if you’re enjoying yourself. 
  
           Not very wise. 
  
 All I see is empty space, so I break my lamp. 
  
 I finally fall asleep when the birds begin their debates.
 I squeeze one pillow to my chest now,
 bunch the others underneath the crest of my neck. 
  
 I must have had bad dreams, I kept tossing around,
 there’s too much room to move in the night these days.  
 My alarm startles me awake, and I reach out to find some solace
 in this early morning, but your side of the bed is ice cold.
  
 I roll over, hit “snooze,” and grab a fist full of blanket,  
 hoping this new reality can teach itself to walk.