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.