Missing

Was he the perfect man?
Was it that he left or I left him?
To drain me empty,
the memory is missing.

I'm left with the thick void of
his peonies in the backyard
and African violets on the windowsill,
the whistle of his teapot
brewing hemlock,
his paintings speaking silent words
with too many lines too well-defined,
lost bets and frayed edges,
frizzled secrets
with wrinkles carved in granite,
lyrical abstractions in fog-held air
repeating endless mistakes perfectly.

Now that he’s gone,
and the hollow is filled
with cold concrete
changing the pace of the heart,
the pain is...
missing.