incomplete.

Every morning after I wake, I make my bed.

It seems an oddity to most but with good reason do I spend

the few minutes of my day tugging at the duvet and fluffing each pillow.

Its striking after someone has gone, to find yourself wandering

about in their space amongst their partial projects.

In the kitchen, the dishes from their last dinner still sit on the table

and the flowers in the window have dried and begun to crumble.

There’s an empty coffee cup on the coffee table

and an incomplete crossword from last month’s paper is home to a pair of readers, ready for use.

There’s dust resting atop the mantle where a copy

of last year’s Christmas card has been framed.

You’ll see the glass of water at their bedside

and the guitar that’s missing a string, yet to be replaced by its owner.

In the closet, dry-cleaning sealed in plastic

and a hairbrush left out on the vanity,

partial bottles of shampoo atop the ledge of the bathtub

and a fresh bar of soap in the dish.

Their scent still lingers in the coat hung on the back of the door,

there’s a basket of unfolded laundry on the floor

and a book on the bedside table earmarked halfway through.

The bed is partially made, though not completely.

Perhaps they were in a hurry and didn’t bother,

perhaps they thought there would be time later.

The disheveled blankets burn hotter at the back of your throat

than any of the other halfways or incompletes

because the decision to leave it as such wasn’t one they chose to make.

Every morning after I wake, I make my bed

because I’d like to leave one less reminder to those who find themselves

amongst the remnants of my life that I didn’t choose to leave them behind to tidy up

all of my halfways and incompletes.