The sky barely pinkened
When you left for your meeting
And I stood in the kitchen
Of a house that was not mine.
The teapot sang good morning,
The fridge hummed a timeworn line,
A bird cried out shrill warning,
And your car rumbled down the drive.
My toes curled on old cold tile
As a draft pushed under the door;
I plucked an avo from the fruit bowl
And took a knife out of the drawer.
Now there may be another dawn
When blood drips down your counter
And the scent of madness lingers on,
But I will have long left this mountain.