Don’t call it absence.
Don’t call it the never gotten love.
The certainty of distances,
how close they are to you now,
and she who clasped herself
to the wind and soared,
leaves behind this city,
full of her possession;
you trail fingers over the rippling walls,
follow her echoing scent.
What is far gone at the end of an unravelling sky
is not outside of you.
You have taken her inside,
you who sing with the lilt of her voice.
And the span of a thousand palms
is not separation.
Look, you inhale and
across never plunging oceans she breathes.
Step forward into the leaning day,
while these familiar things look ripe without her,
she leans in on the other side, speaking,
speaking the hours that you walk.
Don’t call it absence,
this silence that can’t be broken,
that slips between the grooves of your body,
singing over and over what remains of her.