And then it grows dark
and I no longer see the trees
or the buildings from my window.
Maybe there are clouds
in the night sky
because I no longer see the stars, either.
A cold wind creeps in
and I wrap my arms around me
trying to keep warm as warmth escapes me.
There is a quiver and a tremble,
in my lips, my eyelids,
as all I know are taken away by the night.
Even slumber is out of reach
as my blood rushes faster
in the the highways and byways under my skin.
And all these things
not in my grasp, or in sight —
the buildings and the trees,
the warmth and the comfort of sleep,
my copy of Rumi’s complete poems
that were borrowed and never returned,
text messages and e-mails that never came,
a check that is still in the mail,
the story of how my two best friends got together,
the last sunset of 2009,
Breakfast at Tiffany’s,
the first dance of summer,
and the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow —
they will be missed but not longed for.
I have lived without them and still.
Not like you.
The only real absence
is the one that leaves
the heart empty and cold
and wanting more.