Your Shoes Beside My Bed
I woke up alone this morning
Like I always do
With my arm around my pillow
And the pillow told me I love
Your shoes beside my bed.
I went to the bathroom to brush my teeth
And my toothbrush told me I love
Your hairbrush on my sink.
I sat to breakfast
And my fork told me I love
Your legs in long black socks beneath my table.
I got into my car and when I turned the key in the ignition
The engine told me I love
Your fingers tangled in my hair.
I checked my rearview mirror
And the mirror told me I love
Your body in the passenger seat,
Your deep kind eyes in the rainy night of the Cross Island Parkway.
I got home that night
And when I fell into bed
The sheets told me I love
That the scent of you still lingers there, just enough.
by John Tustin
Editor’s note: The personification in this poem allows the objects around the speaker to tell the narrative indirectly, enhancing the emotional impact of the last few lines.
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