You’re not here; I can’t find you.
You’re not real anymore -
when I stretch out my arm,
it meets no resistance.
And I don’t know whether you’ve vapourised,
or stolen away while my back was turned…
- but then, surely I’d have noticed! I,
who never sleep, who know all -
in whose spirit you lived,
and moved,
and had your being.
Posted in Poems
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