When you were there with me,
doing the chores, running the house
paying the bills
putting on the table those palatable meals
smelling of an unmistakable you,
I was writing a different story;
reading newspapers and novels at home,
going to work, drinking coffee
with another cup as my company;
how many vegetables grew in the kitchen garden
how many were bought, I had no clue
I knew the home as home.
Suddenly when you are not there,
when I enter the house with my keys,
the garbage smells of home-delivered food,
when I notice that vacant chair in the coffee table
an emptiness fills my heart.
I see myself caressing my memory,
a translucent field, where
your being there overtakes everything.
when the front corridor has still the impression
of a shoe wrack,
I realize it had walked away
with all the fondness and warmth
that occupied the corner of a space
I no longer see as home,
I am trying to write another story.