When I reflect on

cowardice and bravery:

is one of them more wise,

the other knavery?

You sit alone in a memory, your mornings part of me now as I move through a space that doesn’t hold you anymore. No one knows I’m here.

Like 10 years earlier: marmalade on toast, small teacup, half-grapefruit. I’ll watch you in pyjamas from the dining room, your glass figurines as fragile as me, invisibile.