Distantly, your absence contracts
my stomach, a dull throbbing remembrance
of the close proximity you held
in my cotton mouthed heart,
and that, empty, you still should.
Not hurting, but not forgetting
how closely I had brushed
to everything, that I wasted day dreaming,
and how wholly, repetitively, horribly
I had truncated our chances
with my ignorant anxiety corrupting
our midday meetings, nearly in the sun.
A brief stinging realization that a two hour
and fifty three minute drive is finality
for our short three year charade that I played
like realism, that you scripted like a romance;
drink your poison Romeo, why bother,
Juliet has broken your celestial fate
with the swallowing of her tongue.
SS
In the Present 