The tender ego

I woke up yesterday and you were already gone —
you hadn’t kissed me goodbye (Or I was sleeping too hard
to notice). It was like a movie — the camera starting close
on me as I grimaced, waking, and following my stretched hand
to the empty hollow of your body, the cold pillow (it
wasn’t really cold). I laid there for a bit, warming.
I don’t think I remembered I’m a heavy sleeper til I stood
barefoot in the shower, eyes closed, hands in my hair
(I was upset for a moment, but I chided myself). A ray
of light fell on my tender ego, showing the cracks. It
was warm, all the same: the water, the morning, the missed kiss.