WHEN YOU'RE NOT THERE
February 2021
When, like now,
you're not there -
or here, come to that
I've had to learn
to live without you.
It's hard, no whisper
of your voice,
no salty smell, empty
mirrors, long-gone
shirts and socks.
When you're not there
I make do with echoes,
the sound of fingers
on bristly chin, a mumbled
'I could do with a shave.'
A whole new world
now mine - another man,
another bed, different
socks and shirts, another
reflection in the mirror.
This here-and-now man;
like you, can sing in tune,
likes jazz - but he
has a whiskery beard
and yes, I love him.
