Another story

When you were there with me,

doing the chores, running the house

paying the bills

putting on the table those palatable meals

smelling of an unmistakable you,

I was writing a different story;

reading newspapers and novels at home,

going to work, drinking coffee

with another cup as my company;

how many vegetables grew in the kitchen garden

how many were bought, I had no clue

I knew the home as home.

Suddenly when you are not there,

when I enter the house with my keys,

the garbage smells of home-delivered food,

plastic bags,

when I notice that vacant chair in the coffee table

an emptiness fills my heart.

I see myself caressing my memory,

a translucent field, where

your being there overtakes everything.

Now

when the front corridor has still the impression

of a shoe wrack, 

I realize it had walked away

with all the fondness and warmth

that occupied the corner of a space

I no longer see as home,

I am trying to write another story.