Saturdays

Rays beam through the
broken blind, waking us
slowly, gently, from
a long, deep sleep.

I slide out –
you spread out –
stretch your limbs
to my side,
eyes closed, your lips curl
into a blissful-sleep-smile.

Tea.
Berries.
Toast.
Papers.
Books.
Talking.
Laughter.
Radio.

Slow.
Lazy.
Calm.
Hazy.
Warm.
Light.
Settled.
Zen.

But today, you’re gone –
slipped away, before dawn.
I’m alone, with the rays,
in my own sleepy daze.

I spread out –
stretch my limbs,
to your side;
search for you.
Empty space, cold with absence –
you’re gone. I get up.

Tea.
Berries.
Toast.
Papers.
Book.
Silence.
(No laughter)
Radio.

Slow.
Lazy.
Calm.
Hazy.
Warm.
Light.
But empty.
Without you.

by Annie Ridout

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