On the Island

We took breakfast together
on a white-washed bench. Green walnuts,

yogurt. Ripe tomatoes, eggs. Olive oil toast.
It occurs to me: everything is still there

as we left it. The Byzantine tapestry
on the wall. Taupe cushions. Only we are gone.

The indentation of my back rising
like a ghost. Our adopted cat still waiting

for crumbs, her fur between my fingers,
her push of muzzle against my palm.

Always waiting, impatient outside the door.
Snap of salt in the towels hung on the line.

There’s nothing left of breakfast now. You rub
your beard against my thigh. It’s cold outside

and air seeps in through cracks.
You should have told me how to leave you.

Instead I gaze into an empty glass,
a water-ring scarring the bedside table.

By Allison Wilkins

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