A memory, stranded.

The tea is strong in the morning,
making up for the leftover mascara
on my face, and my shaggy hair
in desperate need of a trim.

The birds are plentiful on the lawn,
plump robins and bluejays doting
on nature and her pastel greens -
a dewy, chilled start to spring.

Everything is similar in feel and
color, except for when it's not,
when I sense the tugging of reality
and the prospect of other dimensions,
where you would have been next to me.

I finish breakfast and set my book down.
Eventually, they'll expect me to get up,
to move from my view of the window,
to leave your memory untouched.

Guilt settles as I peel my eyes away;
I hate saying goodbye all over again.