Each morning she does the same

[Marcus Nalgaber]

Each morning she does the same

 

 

When the morning comes
I see your emptiness in the bed
and with that image in my gaze
I surrender to fantasy
that you are you still in my life

every day, every day

I leave the TV on
and put on the little table
the sketchbooks
that so much entertained you 

To fill the room 
with heat
of voice and color
and walk that space
without feeling so much cold

every day, every day