He Left Me and Took the Dog

‘Where are you?’

I mumble to that empty space beside me,

my eyes, still hazy

from sleep, dreams, and the early morning sun

squeezing in through the gaps

of partially opened blinds.

I consider the empty space

for a moment,

resting my eyes on the creased pillow

that has somehow edged its way closer and closer

to mine

throughout the night.

I note the carelessly tossed duvet,

and the living breathing notebook

on the bedside table,

a coffee ring stain on its cover;

a pen tucked into the last visited page.

The dog’s bed is empty.

I am irked by intrusive rumbles from outside,

then I remember: it is bin day;

rumbles of bin-wheels

on concrete canvas,

and I smile.

I smile because I never have to take out bins.

I smile because I know

that within that notebook

linger stories

of how our children laughed.

My name infused with intimacy

occasionally graces the pages.

I smile because the door opens

our dog bounds in,

playful,

having been fed and taken out.

I smile because

a cup of tea enters the bedroom,

followed by my husband,

playful mischief twinkles in his eyes.