in my head you have always been
the narrator, the champion, the hero,
the singer of all the songs
i listen to when i miss you.
(a compilation of all the words i have sung to you:
longer than proust, denser than joyce,
more deceptive than kierkegaard.)
in some other life
i am much more desperate,
and therefore much more willing.
(remember the lake, remember the beach,
the smooth stones, the yellow-as-corn sands.)
this does not prevent me from missing you.
existentially; i miss the idea of you,
the action of you, the compatibility and the chemistry
and the memories and the era.
you are a time, and i am a tide,
and i sweep forward unbroken
using detritus to erode my own path.