I only knew you for a day.
When I first saw that test, disbelief.
A day of planning –
hiding tabs at work.
That evening, our son asleep.
A different kind of quiet fell.
Nothing to prove you were here.
Not even a name.
Telling you that I was fine.
Sunken eyes and wet cheeks,
when no one was around.
The guilt of sitting down,
realising I didn’t think of you today.
Only hearing one set of feet running to the door.
The only proof,
a lantern on the countertop,
and those two red lines,
still in the drawer.