Angela Greynor, Recently Gone

Walking through the door,
I know this isn’t our kitchen.

Your phone is on the counter,
my coat hung up on the back door.

Maybe I can’t recognise, not anymore.
It’s warm as I look down;

an apple crumble is browning in our oven.
I never learnt to bake.

To leave it would be a cremation,
but taking it out means choices –

can I eat the last warm piece of you?
Touching your chair I scowled at,

I ask for a hug but it won’t turn around.
I crumple on the tiles you said were the perfect touch.

My hand tries to squeeze them but scratches.
Tears fall to splashes whilst I think

“What about the rest of the house?”
Crawling through the door,

I know this isn’t our home, just mine,
only not even mine anymore.

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