The Lack

I sit here gazing into our garden
and my thoughts are thrown to a future
where you are gone from the world –
by the sound of voices and strings from the radio

I imagine your funeral, the darkness of the church
The tears of the congregation of your life
and me sat here in this house again, after
gazing into the future without you

And I catch a taste of what must be
the lot of the losers, having lost their shining thread
drawn into old places, without the old guard –
the cursed nostalgia, unrelenting

Unable to move, unable to remove
from life, the anchors of the past
and I understand for a second
what loneliness is.

And for a second it destroys me.
The lack is not someone missing –
it is someone all too there, overdetermined.

Your loss, already overthought
will haunt me until it, too, passes
and we see my real reaction.

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