I know no other word for love,
I know no other word for you,
but love and you, you and love,
love and you and you.
Sometimes, it is like having a ghost stuffed in your mouth, a phantom lurking blindly behind the couch, waiting for you to sit, yes, sit quietly, listen to the TV and then suddenly, spark, a flashlight flash and you're thinking, he's here, no, he's not here, are there two in the room or just me?
And other times, we write letters to strangers, seek no one to speak to, seek hard, seek up and down, climb stairs, jump stairs, under stairs, perhaps under the sink -- have you checked the pipes? Where did we stuff his fingers, the soles of his feet? Is he dead
or just an afterthought, a flavor of the week, he'll be back, that's what you say, you liar, you heartless lying slug he'll be back, he's on his way, just fifteen seconds more he's on his way....
because most days I can't find
anything, not a damned slip of paper
or a noteworthy thought, anything to jot down
on envelopes, bank cards, order forms, receipts,
and when asked for a name, I give your address
as though I could ever travel
by way of bus stop, or common flight to meet you
midpoint, halfway there.
Sometimes, sometimes, it sneaks up around corners
and springs, outstretched, claws
into the neck.
It strikes between
on a pike; where is my head?
high in conversation,
I am struck down by
what is behind me; what is over