There are no crumbs; no bed to trace

Where your body once rested

There is a space in my apartment.

My yoga mat sits in the corner; lonely

Like a sheep on barren land

The walls weep: missing your dangly feet

And your outstretched hands.

Floor free of clutter, and you, uttering those words

You’re snoring again!

Your voice singing the blues; lingers,

Like the towel you left draped

over the living room door

There is a space in my apartment.

No one to pour me tea, two lumps

Half a cup

Bathroom turned back to normal - No water to mop up.

My sides no longer ache; from sillies and laughter

Your recitals’ of dreams and of happy ever after

There is a space in my apartment.

By Belinda Johnston