the house is still and quiet this morning

the only noise from cicadas outside my kitchen window

thier songs drift sweetly in with golden rays of morning light onto the white washed face of the wooden corner nook table where i sit– where we sat

all my coffee is gone

i stare at the empty tenants, brown and black grinds filtering across the bottom of my mug

there is nothing left– nothing to clutch, to hold on to, to comfort or sooth

only unavoidable emptyness, stillness,  and the cicadas melody

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