SuperNova Afterglow: End Of Days

The Quiet Space (title help?)

It's so quiet here
I treat this space like
you're up there in that hidden space
still at my table by the window with my guide
lighting a path to the other side
in my virtual space hidden
I treat like a church
it's so quiet here

I'm so accustomed to you
being in that loft, forgetting
you've been gone for, how long has it been?
my memory fades from this vantage
afforded an inept accountant
of time spent by a clear pane

I look out into that lonely, early street,
know it will fill with love calling,
spinning wheels at this intersection,
bikes and buggies aimed at the park,
while wind whispers, louder out there,
through visibly aging trees

I look through this room, past two elbows --
the frame of a room I'm in,
the frame of a door left open, further,
where you slept in, most mornings, while I
typed, played dreams on a visual stage
unseen, heard likely by you, dreamer,
who always needed a few more hours rest.

Which one of us still exists in this space?

"Judee" 

7.19.21 -typed in five, edit later, I suppose. Not motivated and shouldn't be creating until I get a handle on me.

Swore I wasn't going to add more to "Life’s Little Misdirections 🥀🦋"  until the accounting of my works was complete, an audit that could take some time when I see the unedited pieces, some hidden, staring back at me, while thinking of my son, the college dropout, who's up before dawn, gone to a job, still here when I type or play a song and think of this unnecessary need for reverence, quiet. He never stirred when I played songs from my laptop, and I shouldn't have worried. But, somehow, I still do until I know he's alright.