I leave your lunch plate in the sink, the cap off the toothpaste,
the covers tangled on your side of the bed.
 
You leave my hairbrush in the sink, my keys in the door,
the diaper genie full even though it’s starting to smell.
 
It’s an unexpected work call, a shower that lasts just a little too long,
reading on the couch while you take the kids for a walk.
 
It’s silence in between requests:
“Can you drop this off at the post office?”

“Will you pick up milk at the store?”
“Can you do baths tonight?”
 
It’s a heavy quiet while we watch TV, an empty carton of Ben & Jerry’s
we didn’t offer to share, curdled milk in the baby’s cup.
 
Sometimes the room feels full of all the words we didn’t say.
Sometimes my throat is sore from all the anger I made myself swallow.
 
But even on the hardest days,
my body still finds yours in my sleep.

You still get up at night with the baby.
You still send me videos of our son at the playground.

And when I say I love my home,
everyone knows I’m talking about you.