You always wanted me to tell you about my day
so here goes:
This morning, I burned the toast
and then the eggs
but I ate them anyway.
If these are the motions,
I guess I’m going through them.
I managed to shower
(slowly, because I couldn’t
get my hands to stop shaking).
I’m sorry I don’t have anything
more compelling to say. I don’t
even know if you’re listening.
I am not suffering in a way
that makes a good story.
I wish I could make something up,
say that I did not think about you
in the middle of tying my shoes
and start to cry all over again, but
nonfiction doesn’t care about dramatic timing
or a neat little resolution, so I wonder
how missing you is supposed to teach me anything.