The memory returns to that corridor,
to your room
sheathed in shadows.
A stern glass door
divides us. Beyond it you’re perhaps
laying a necklace
back in your jewel case.
On this side I clasp my doubts in silence.
What else was loving you, if not a respite
from the desire to be?
What is it, if not pain, to know you
beyond the door – helpless – waiting
for the call of absence.
I keep hold of hope and defer to the void
where there’s no longer a where
and when has nothing to say:
a loving you without honour
from one who – wounded and tired –
just loves and is.