there is no ‘place’

You could not tell me
where it hurt
or articulate the whispering pain . . .
as I could not lessen my pace
or cup my ear to hear
for the diminishment of you . . .
 
Your eyes,
once dancing blue with love,
had grown weary of the day
and dismissed the effort of sight
for the dim misty pools of age
 
I was then, as I am no more,
ambivalent of the coy westerly wind
pressing against the threshold
and leaving our door
half open  . . .
half shut . . .
 
The night you slipped
through that narrow doorway . . .
leaving ‘place’
to search for its lost one . . .
I remembered too late
the quality of love
we shared in absentia . . .
the wind at the threshold . . .
the once dancing blue . . .
 
I struggle with the memory
and the missing of you