The clock coughs up another minute,
but you’re just in the shower,
I tell myself,
even as mildew blooms like rot in your toothbrush cup.

The sheets haven’t moved.
I lie like a crime scene,
body contoured to where you used to forget me.

Your coffee mug dares me to touch it.
I don’t.
Maybe the heat still clings to its ceramic ribs.
Maybe time stopped
when your voice
folded itself into voicemail.

The mail piles up like apologies.
Your name still dances
on envelopes
A requiem in junk offers
and subscription renewals.

I don’t move your coat from the hook.
It watches the door

like a dog
still waiting for its master.

Everyone says I’m “adjusting.”
Like I misplaced you
in a thrift store,
like you’ll be on the clearance rack
next season.

The mirror doesn’t say your name.
But I write it in lipstick anyway,
just to see if it will stick.

You’re not dead.
Just late.
Very late.

A ghost wouldn’t leave the lights on.