I Do Not Write the Word

I set two plates out of habit.

Yours stays the color of the table.

I pour the water you will not lift.

The glass keeps its circle.

Friends ask how I am.

I give them everything
except the chair.

The chair is doing the work.

It sits where you stood up
and did not come back.

In the closet your coat
still knows your shoulders.

The hanger has an idea
of a body the coat refuses.

I say your name once.

I leave the rest of the sentence
open so the room has to hold it.

I eat.

The second plate cools into a moon no one claims.

At night I leave the hallway light on
for a person the house has already
stopped expecting.

What is missing has weight.

It leans on the empty side of the bed
and keeps the sheets from lying flat.

I do not write the word for you.

If I put it on the page the white space
around it would have nothing left to do.

Silence has always been the loudest
thing I own.

Tonight it sits across from me
and does not ask how I am.