Dishcloths and Fairy Liquid

It catches me out at times like this,
The banging of pots and pans,
Up to my elbows in dishcloths and Fairy Liquid;
I miss you.

I turn to share a joke, a smile,
Mundane remembrances
Of a nothing-much day (were they ever?)
And the tidal wave stops me in my tracks.
The echoing grief of your absence astounds me
So much that I stand quite still.

Drip, drip;
The tap doesn’t share my pain,
Foamy bubbles blur the tears before they’ve even left my eyes,
The floor is wet, my feet are dry, but the floor is wet.
And suddenly I’m on my knees,
Dishcloth like a rosary in my hand,
I’m praying, begging to survive just this bout of your absence.

I’m a dishcloth survivor,
I work, I rush, I leak a little, but I’m intact (just about),
The floor will be dry again, the cutlery clean,
My mind will be busy;
The frothing radio commands my attention and removes all traces of you,
(You were never real, life was never that good)
As it should, as it must.

Because every time I forget you’re gone,
It gets that little bit more likely
That you’re never coming back.