(February, 2010)

Do you want to know what it is like without you here?

It is busy
and black
like Wall Street.
Now there is a void at my side where you used to be,
into which slides all of my understanding
and my longing;
all of my referential humor
and laughter
until I am sliding from a crescendo
into an awkward half-chuckle
off-set by a mumbled guessyouhadtobethere.

I see sexual relations everywhere.
In the room next door.
In the car pool lane.
In spring coming early and couples popping out along the streets.
Especially in the wild, foggy night
driving down Mockingbird,
listening to Joni Mitchell and missing you.
In my dreams,
and yours.
On the refrigerator, even.
And still,
my dear,
I wait for you.

What choice have I but to wait?
Crippled and strange as I am here, now,
with some important piece of me missing:
an arm or a leg,
my heart, maybe.



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