POEM: Empty

My hand.

Your trash can in our bathroom.

The other side of the bed.

The bottle of Whyte Laydie gin from Missoula, the last 2 ounces of which went in my martini with 3 olives (the way you liked it) a few nights ago.

The stool where you liked to sit at the kitchen counter.

The space in the pantry typically taken up by your protein drinks and meal supplements.

Your tall body in the pickup truck.

The keyboard of your laptop, where your fingers no longer tap.

The strings on your guitars, which no longer get strummed.

The calendar, without dates for planned concerts or trips.

The spot on the ottoman in the family room where your feet used to be.

The wine glass I would have filled for you, even if you could have only taken a sip or two.

Your favorite spot on the outdoor sofa.

The backpack you used to take to the gym.

The gas tank of your Harley, waiting patiently for you in the garage.

The space where you worked in the sunroom.

The paper where I would have written you a love note.

An enormous part of my heart.