From This Side of the World

FROM THIS SIDE OF THE WORLD

Over the breakfast table,

we gaze at our sections

of the morning paper,

eyes caked with crusty leftovers

from our dreams.

Black coffee,

heavy in my throat,

scorches like the echoes

of all the things

I shouldn’t have said.

My darling. No –

love. No,

darling:

sitting on the other side

of the table,

lying on the other side

of the bed,

resting in your armchair

on the other side

of the world,

“pass the sugar?”

You turn the page

of the sports section

and kiss the lips

of the coffee mug.

I sigh loudly,

but the score reports

seem to have

captured your attention

in ways I never could.

I reach over the

hot mugs and cold cereal

to grab the sugar bowl.

Your silence settles

into a film over my lips:

there’s so much

and nothing left

to say.

Once breakfast is finished,

you leave for work,

only remembering to say goodbye

with your wedding ring hand

on the doorknob

and your back to me.

The kiss you keep for yourself

leaves my lips

slightly parted,

my breath

slightly stolen.

I abandon the dirty dishes

and trudge back to our bedroom,

where I crawl

underneath ice cold bed sheets,

fantasizing

about the day

we will finally

remember

how to speak,

with some conviction,

those three words

(my darling).