I await the day you don’t come home.
Your shoes lying carelessly on the doormat,
Reeking of anger and of moist.
The tray upon the side stool holding warm coffee and dried milk,
The mild moonlight falling on the translucent hotel window
Spilling into the silk sheets on the bed.
I await the night you don’t return.
Your supper; half cold, wrapped in white
Like the corpses of two grandparents sprawled in the same casket.
Mother, in between thoughts, sleep and prayers and stained tears on her cheeks.
I await the day you don’t come home
But I hear your knuckles tap the gate
Forcing me to introduce myself To the cold, starless night.
And so until then I’ll wait.