She Leaves The Milk Out.

A quiet meditation on marriage, loss, and small ordinary acts.

She leaves the milk out—
a quiet act of defiance, perhaps,
a sign she finally listened
after all these years,
after all those mornings of
soured cornflakes,
curdled tea,
plastic lids congealed with regret.

She leaves the lights on—
a glow beneath the door,
a beacon in the hallway,
as if to say, I am still here.
I used to sigh,
switch them off,
call it wasteful, careless.

She leaves the heating on—
a slow-burning kindness,
warmth stitched into walls,
wrapped around my bones
like the memory of a home.
I used to breathe heavily,
complain of thick air,
throw open windows in protest.

Maybe this was love,
scattered in small gestures,
little breadcrumb trails,
a way to guide me home.

Now, the rooms are colder,
the silence much sharper.

Now, the darkness engulfs me
As I stumble, searching for her.

Now, the milk is less sour. 
But never so bitter. 

So, I leave the milk out to remember.
I leave the lights on to forget.