dear Joy,

i miss the smell of your food
as it simmers in our kitchen — herbs
and spices tangled in ways only you
can decipher, with some master’s codex,
which you probably wrote anyway —

it’s hard these days. everything is burnt.
i’ll figure out how to get by on
protein bars and protein shakes and
freezer meals — at this point i’m
surrounded (by plastic and cardboard).
i tried, i really did, to make those
recipes you left on the dresser before
you went away, and they don’t taste
like anything. it’s all sand for me.

i suppose when you’re home
it’ll be like you never left,
until you leave again.

so do you know yet? when you’ll
be back? there’s some sort of
gunk on the fish tank and i
can’t get it off. these awful hands,
all broken up. i’m afraid
the goldfish won’t make it
another week.

the air weighs heavier every day without you,
Kitty