All The Little Things

All the small things you do that can go unnoticed because you're no longer you.

A whisper in your ear you can barely hear,

a brush of the finger against your tightened skin.

A breath of air blown to the back of your neck,

a pass of the hand across your aging face.

A flick of your hair to knock it out of place,

anything I could do for you to notice I am there.



Stand beside your kitchen door first thing in the morning,

walk behind you as you step out on your way to work.

Sit by your desk as you answer your telephone,

laugh with you when you tell a joke to a friend.

Pull up beside you while you eat lunch in the break room,

anything I could do for you to keep you company.



Follow you as you leave from work,

step in your footsteps as you enter the store.

See the groceries you place in your cart,

notice your eating habits have changed to poor.

Shake my head in disbelief as you check out,

and wonder if it's all because I am gone.



Take my place in the passenger seat going home,

enjoy the music you play once the news is turned off.

Kiss your cheek as you climb into your bed,

watch as you drift off into a peaceful sleep.

Pull the covers up and tuck you in keeping you warm,

and wonder if you ever realized you were never alone.