It’s as if you’re there to wash my hands for me
Whispering secrets under your breath as you scrub
Harder and harder,
Washing away the scurf of the rest of
Our life.

I can see you sitting there
Looking like you were about to smile at me,
But then your face dies and
In comes the pity,
Waiting to pounce.

It’s as if your cooking is
Your love for me.
But then it would be burnt occasionally,
Or have too much salt,
Or not enough flour.

They say you don’t care
But it seems like you’re always here
Watching and staring
Waiting for my eyes to close so that you
Can leave again.

You sit as though you were about to speak quietly,
But it seems as if your mind has changed,
As not a word pours from your lips
And the creases next to your nose twitch,
Eager to function.

It’s as though the watch you wear
Needs to be reassured of its beauty.
The delicate hands crawling agonizingly
Instead of racing along
The way you want.

I know how you want to leave
And I am sorry for the pain,
Which is incised onto those clear blue sockets,
Like scratches on a mirror.