Move

The bed is a world between us.
You turn to face the wall and I
face the door.

The polite "good mornings"
are all well and said, harsh
whispers at the early dawn.

You make your coffee
and stroll to the deck,
these days I don't
even ask for a cup.

The routine has set in
like a black cloud in this
old house. I don't ask
for much.

A rare touch is all that
is shared, a tender moment
that is thoughtless and
mournful.

You don't notice the
boxes near the room,
empty now, but waiting
for treasure.

A plane ticket on the counter
doesn't seem to phase you,
near the keys that I left for
you.

No need for letters and notes
you won't even notice when
I am gone.