Absences

I'm more than a little discombobulated when I'm parted from my wife. Even a relatively short separation (this weekend, for example), has me a bit uneasy. It isn't (I hope) neediness, so much as a recognition that my life would be immeasurably, irretrievably lessened, diminished, emptied without her. We have so little time, realistically, that every second away from her is another irrecoverable moment. Of course, we both need intervals of solitude, time alone to pursue interests dissimilar and unrelated, for professional pursuits, and to commune with the divine, or the muses,  or what have you (or simply to remind ourselves of what it is we desire and need from each other, why we're together in the first place). 

But I miss her dreadfully, and whatever I may be doing, however enjoyably I'm occupied or agreeable my companions are, there's a lurker thought that wonders whether I'll see her again. Morbid, yes. But inescapably true. 

So here's a poem I wrote (ages ago, but revised). I make no great claims for it as poetry, but they're my words, and it's hers, and she's mine. She's my sine qua non. 

Absolution

Water,

its deft touch

lingering

along the defiant

curve of your throat,

simplifies absence,

separation's essential ardour,

and this evening's 

failing light,

shaped by the furred forest's hush,

and the green rain's taste

on our tongues

and tangled

in your darkening hair,

satisfies this unstilled desire,

amplifies my unspoken delight.

'Come Home Safely' - Let's Go Sailing