first untitled poem

in the cold unbearable light of waking
the memory of what isn't
haunts my teacup
and blackens my toast

in the morning ritual of shower, teeth, hair, face the absence of you fogs the mirror and announces itself in the taste of toothpaste and the tangles in my hair

and in the first glimpse of outside world the bite of air and murmur of traffic remind me I am still alive

and you, my unattainable muse,
who guides my anguish and my pen,
in every painting I see your face,
in every brushstroke my hand,
and in every ending I see my tears

most birds do not return home

Claire