IT'S COOL WE CAN STILL BE FRIENDS

to say it feels like

a stranger in your own house
the forks are to the left of the knives
you do not remember organizing that drawer
or his hair parted that way, him wearing sweaters.
it looks new.

a moment has passed and you look down at your hands
to have used your hands, to have loved with them,
to know they are disappearing is to see that they are
as each finger was its own orchestra
now the violins are silent.

if I could just

silently push the chairs in
hang up the photographs,  call out
an echo up the stairs the words “i am home”
and hear in return anything but the dull
white walls ring my own tones.

hear a “hello, i moved the forks,
i bought a sweater, i cut my hair. i’ve missed your
hold
it feels like i’ve been waiting
forever for you
to come home.”