WHEN YOU'RE NOT THERE
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.