Sunday Mournings

Sunday mornings are the hardest.
  
Like today. I was doing fine. I got my own coffee going-albeit lacking the French touch you would bring.  
Hit play on that Acoustic Sunday Mornings mix.    
Lit a fire in the chimney—same one we always meant to get swept  
when we were we.  
   
I stepped out under the crisp winter air to scoop up the New York Times—  
I still think of you    every    single     time.  
One hundred Sundays and counting  
of a little bend and break.  
   
As I always did (remember?), I first gravitate towards the magazine, seeking inspiration from this week’s poet.    
First page opened reveals a happy couple.    
Dressed like us.  Traveling like us.  
   
‘Unexpected Italy’ it heralds, along with a less unexpected longing in my womb.  
The same one you used to inhabit.  
The very space you failed to hold sacred.  
   
On morns like this, I mourn the (al)most.  
   
R.