I feel ready to disappear if
you aren't here to see me;
over and over again I feel
the impulse to declare:
"I have not gone!
You are not bereft of my
remembrance yet–"
(although I tend to wonder
if you would).
Am I a wood you've lost the
sight of, for having fallen trees
so long you lose the taste for
sap nor the touch of mess
come off between
your fingers–?
And when you walk between
us do you bother still to give
a name to each these passing
days in infamy; perilous held
from minds act as a sieve
to part me from my wind–?
your rustling in the leaves.
I am abandoned when I am
not alone, but harbouring
the wanderer
who will not call me home.
--
The life we lead without you feels
a cold, hard thing indeed.
