I can’t pretend I can’t sleep

to get up and interrupt you

anymore

You’re not on the walls

or in the bathroom drawer

You don’t pour

milk into my mug

Dad does

(he adds extra Quik)

but he can’t

ponytail my hair

or boil breakfast eggs

You’re not cutting

carrots into sticks

or standing

like a thumb

in the mix

of other mothers

at the school gate

You left

empty shelves

where your books used to be

I don’t hear the kettle

boiling for your tea

I don’t hear you

singing at the sink

pink lips and rubber gloves

I can’t dip my fingers

in the suds

I can’t see

your curly words

on permission

slips

or on lunchbox lovenotes

underneath my ham and cheese

You don’t put

your hands

on your hips

You took your dresses

and

you left us

in boxes

Your voice

is on the end

of the phone

When you come home

you kiss me with

chewing-gum breath

leave

a lipstick print

on my cheek

And then you leave

I can still smell your perfume neck