I stare at her toothbrush
on the bathroom counter. I wasn't planning
to have my heart chewed into a pulp
before I even wash my face
this morning.
In a couple of minutes, I'll sit on
the kitchen bench, have the long black coffee
and donut to myself, and she won't nitpick
about the frosting being not thick enough.
I'll get up and rummage the laundry
for a familiar scent.
I'll answer a phonecall with
fake excitement "Yes! She got a great contract
in Dresden, Germany! Can you believe it?"
and wonder how the rear bedroom
became a bleak auditorium.
Her charger, fiber mascara, purple water bottle:
a silent audience to my silent tears.
She must be now in a local café ordering
a Tchibo and a Fasnacht, or on a train to Radeberg,
taking photos of new scenery.
