Though not sensible I feel we are married still.
After four years survival guilt endures.
I should have said this, could have done that,
and your absent presence has left a weeping scar.
Like a heartbeat, you are indispensable.
Each year, I think, the cries of the dead retreat,
become smaller, small. Now your nearness is far
and sometimes I sense you’re hardly there at all.
When in company, when my smiles persist,
your distance briefly is like the furthest star.
It’s when I’m most myself, most alone
with all the clamour of my senses dumb,
then, in the confusion of Time’s deletion
by Eternity, I welcome you and you return
improbably close, though of course you cannot come.
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