At breakfast I can’t eat, so I draw
a topographical map of where
your body was. I look for relief
when you’re not here. Contour lines
down your side of the bed, then up
the refrigerator door, its elevation
suggesting your torso, and inside it
the eggs you’d break on yourself.
Then the dip
in the couch where your body sat
drinking coffee. Dark concentrations
where lines bunch together. Dark
stains on the cushion, spilt thoughts.