Strange to think of you gone.  The sun still came up in the east this morning.  The dog still needs to be fed.  The porch light is still out.  The neighbor's car still needs a new muffler.  Nothing has changed and everything is different.  You walked out so casually.  I said, "Back at the usual time?"   
          And you said, "I'm not coming back." 
          I stood there, my mouth hanging open, deprived of speech.  I suppose I should have seen it coming.  There must have been signs, indications.  I could think only, "I've missed the bus."  How stupid is that?
          You said, "I'll send for my things." 
          And I said, "Is there someone else?"
          And you said, "Does it matter?"
          I didn't answer, but I thought, Of course it does, you idiot.
          You said, "I'm tired.  I need to go."  And you went.
          In a minute I'll finish this cup of coffee and then I'll gather your things together—all of them—and deposit them in the front yard and set a match to them. 
          To hell with the fire ordinances.