Coming Home Again

I should have left our house
how it was for a while,
been gentler with myself - not pushed
to have some control - tightly clasp
these writhing pink worm days.

Not thrown away your odd blue sock
that haunted the clothes dryer for years.
It made you laugh,
I wish I had it still.

Emptied shelves reproach me too.
Great books you pored over thrown out
into a world that prefers Google.

Does sorry count if no one hears?

I feel like a contestant being shouted at
on one of those game shows
where you snatch as much as you can
of what’s thrown from the air.

Yet I’ve clutched so little of you.

I gave away your favourite clothes
not thinking they’d lost you too,
might never be worn again,
might never be touched.

Bare patches.

Your glasses left on a window sill
in your study, looking at me still,
but this isn’t our home anymore,
their smeared lenses show
I’m no longer seen.