The cry of a pretty cock
    interrupts my joy.

    Claiming his doodle-doo.

How dare he take away
    the smile,
    the dream,

    The closest I'm able to be to you.

So my morning arrives,
    with fading joy,
    and a subtle ache—

    soft and persistent, like a hand pressed against the chest.

The bed feels bigger,
    the silence sharper,
    what's this empty space?

Dreams fade quickly,
    but their traces linger—

    her words,
        a smile,
            the faintest promise of something more.

Eyes open to a world
    where she isn’t yet real—
    only imagined,

    only known in fragments.

How strange it is to miss someone never truly met.

Each thought of her
    is both tether and flight,
    a quiet pull toward a future not yet shaped.

The day waits—
    but first,
    the ache.

Finally the wondering,
    and the hope…

    Of the becoming.