Everywhere
I am not here
in the home we share.
I’m not in the folds
I’m smelling
of the roses he bought.
Nor am I with
the little brown redbirds
we’re watching together,
nor the late Harvest Moon
I could’ve watched all night.
I can’t remember the last time
I was in the room with myself.
Somewhere, I can almost hear
the song I’m singing,
see the words I’m writing,
no longer in hatred
but still so far
from the love in “I love you.”
I promise we’ll meet there
soon;
again,
I’ll touch you without this
dimension between us;
otherwise, I’ll die here,
deafly, blindly, echoes from now.
Anybody here with me?
Love always,
your Mister
Lonely Hearts Chapel 