Absent he was, as time gone by
- fast as she forgets -
on coming home his body smelled of travel,
strangers - sweat.
His dark-brown hands were stroking softly
her face of winter- white,
dead shy for something old and everyday,
made the silence long for half a word
and tangible for what, as better halves,
had gone for good and without say.
Yin and yang too deeply hidden
beneath her starving skin; they laughed a bit,
could think of nothing to confess.
That dear old coat that fitted once her thoughts so well
had grown too big, unnoticed,
like distance to their far farewell
decided in unparalleled reunion -
it was a monster, there between the sheets,
a bedmate, not a prayer to eschew.
There it lay,
what photographs and letters didn’t say,
death it was, for real and here to stay.
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