A Greater Chore
The bathroom lacks your spare change scattered,
and my bank account is no longer flattered.
Your socks are no longer sprawled on the floor,
but everyday entails a greater chore.
There's certainly far fewer dishes to scrub,
but there's no companion to enjoy my grub.
I'm no longer someone's personal maid,
but the lack of your traffic makes me afraid.
The covers are tucked on your side of the bed,
but fluffing the comforter is a simple dread.
The satin sheets no longer unfold you,
and this beating breast has no chest to mold to.
A cabinet drawer hangs, and my bouquet is bent.
As I weep, the dripping sink seems to lament.
If you're with the Holiest, and only know bliss,
I wonder if you're oblivious, or you witness this.
If the latter, is your perspective so much greater,
knowing I'm a blink away from the Creator?
By the grace of the Savior, I wait for your return,
when these eerie ashes will leap from your urn.
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