The maniac in my head,
bent and twisted in the corner,
has been planning our life
out:
You in the morning,
running late to work,
toast and jam growing cold
on your plate
across from my place at the table.
You in the afternoon,
busy at the office,
taking phone calls,
ignoring my texts
about our daughter.
You in the evenings,
all heavy sighs and
tired eyes,
slumped in front of the television,
mouth half open.
You at midnight,
wide awake and electrified
with what you had hoped
our life would end up,
which wasn’t this.