Sometimes I am forgetful, some days I can’t recall,
And I'll wake up at seven, though this seems like something small,
But then I'll walk to the kitchen, and in some kind of daze,
Begin to make your sandwiches as I see the sun’s first rays,
And I always think it odd, at first, when you don’t come down,
To sit and eat your breakfast with your little morning frown,
So I troop up to your bedroom and knocking at the door,
Think to myself how strange it is that I can’t hear you snore,
But of course as it swings open, it all comes rushing back,
And as I see your empty bed, my shoulders start to slack,
And I will weep and weep at your door, too scared to go in,
And face the truth that’s lying there as the room begins to spin,
So I come back down the stairs and cannot bear the sight,
Of your little sandwiches, all neat and square and white,
And after a little while I'll toss them in the bin,
Trying not to look at the other sandwiches I know lie within.