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.





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