Hiraeth

One night we are sitting at dinner. The table is plain. The crockery is white. The glasses are burgundy, the water is drunk. Over a frugal meal of rice and lentils, he tells me the same old story of lush rice fields and his mother’s eyes. We sleep satiated, in more than one way.
The next morning, my hand reaches out on the cheesecloth sheet and clutches air. He is gone. And I am alone. All day I wander in the garden where the bees are dunk on promise and the flowers blush with possessiveness. I talk to your beloved roses, but they are aware that I do not care too much for them, not like you do. I am the only woman whom you will allow the roses to adorn. Wrapped in my hair, spread on the bed, sprinkled on my pathway.
The ducks come looking for you, missing your shouts and hearty hey-hos. The cat wander and by and climbs into my ample lap, preferring my flesh to your bones. The dog is faithful as always but I can tell, he wonders about you.
At night, I set out a single place mat. It’s made out of rushes and is yellow and brown. I use my fancy china, the one you find pretentious. And my glass has rose´. I can’t bear rice. It is stone fruit and chocolate and rose cookies. I have the radio on. 
Around me the darkness is a breathing person.
I shall do this every day, and one day, my fingers will reach out and there you will be with your repentant mouth and sad eyes. We will go back to the before roles.
Till the next time. Till the next time my love, when the world and I are too much for your solitude.

Hiraeth: a longing for a ‘home’ you can't return to, or one that was never yours.