Soup

In the morning,
you wanted to make her the perfect cup of tea,
but it was too strong and the milk dripped
from the teaspoon to the counter in small white puddles.
In the afternoon,
you wanted to give her a perfect bowl of soup.
Soup that heals the world and reverses everything.
But you were gone too long,
and it lay scorched and thick in the bottom of a pan.
In the evening,
you arranged her blankets and smoothed the sheets.
You wanted to be forgiven,
she wanted to be released.
And far past those days and hours
of perfect and imperfect moments,
you still search for her in photographs and clothes
and in the awful sameness of an empty room.