I began writing about him since the day he left. I wrote miles of words; strung into sentences, heartbreaking paragraphs and poems that don’t rhyme in the hopes that one day, a word or a strategically-placed semicolon would tug at his heartstrings and he would come back. I wrote of him as the very air

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Morning Routine.

Wake up to hit the snooze button. Wake up again. Properly. Officially. Already-late to wherever I am going. Reach across to what used to be your side of the bed to find empty sheets. Check the phone just in case you had changed your mind.   Perform typical bodily functions. Wonder how one can go

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