A lonely cornflake, ousted from your cereal bowl for its unexplained deformity, now destined for a one-way trip to the rubbish. This, you leave for me to gaze upon and ponder your passing through the room.

On a coffee table in the living room, a cup of half drunk tea waits despairingly, knowing that it has become too cold to warrant your continued attention, it doesn’t know it yet but you’re not coming back and it’s up to me to put it out of its misery.

In the bathroom, your toothbrush gloats and the damp towel flung carelessly in the corner luxuriates in the memory of your warm skin. They mock me as I set the room to rights. Through the open doorway, the bed sits in stoic despondency, resigned to the loss of your long, lean frame spread-eagled across the sheets, across me.

The mirror smiles and keeps her secrets to herself, tells me only that, which my eyes can see, indifferent to my wishing for something else, something . . . more, but here on the dresser is a sad cuff-link next to an empty box – the other is long gone to that place between then and now.

Then, you were right here in front of me, laughing as we said goodbye, sighing at the wonderful of it all, and now, the sound echoes faintly, whispering of your having been here.