Your absence does not Pierce,
nor ache, as it did.
Raw wounds have, over time,
healed, the rough scars
interspersed against soft tissue.
I read Hawthorne’s “Wakefield,”
and within, I found a sentence:
“It is perilous to make a chasm in human
affections; not that they gape so long
and wide–but so quickly close again!”
I don’t think about you, like I did,
except in quiet moments
like this one.
I don’t wake to check
for any means of communication:
by phone, email, text message,
the message system of a game
we played, a letter…
I don’t check to see what time
it is there;
the timezone difference
doesn’t affect me.
You can deny that this isn’t leaving,
if you like.
Your promise still lingers,
a pale ghost in my bedroom,
a weight pressed
on the foot of my bed,
which I kick off.
I smudge the room,
and exorcise your worthless word
from the air,
for that is all it is now: air.
You might as well be Wakefield,
that man who sought thrill,
then became thrall, twenty years,
to sickness, in his mind.
Wither away, and may your words
come back to haunt you,
instead of me.
I will heal,
and think of you