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Inside Job

2009-03-10 3:50 a.m.

Her half of the closet is empty.
Her bathroom shelf is empty.
Her alarm clock is gone.
Her suitcases are gone.
Her drawers are empty.
Her keyboard is gone.
Her blanket is gone.
Her laundry is gone.
Her towels are gone.
Her plates are gone.
Her books are gone.
Her shoes are gone.
Her desk is empty.
Her pans are gone.
Our plant is gone.

As if this place had been robbed.
My doing, as if I'd given the key.

Her scent is here.
Her hair, still everywhere.
Her voice responds to my every thought.

Otherwise, it's awfully quiet around here.