all long morning. clinging to the weight of this oversized ceramic mug.

i'm doing that thing. that alone-women often do. or so it seems in the cliche image held in my head. the partner gone for some reason. among the missing of miles or ghosts or just a few minutes away picking up coffee and a newspaper. walking around the house wearing little more than a large white cotton oxford shirt. the too long sleeves rolled half-way up and still hovering just around the wrists. buttons haphazardly done. one here or there. only to hold it slightly together. there's no one coming round. just me. and this shirt that probably isn't even yours. but there's a comfort in it. this practice of padding around barefoot. and wishing you were here.