You will go on, noting the pressing half-light,
the hollow of every shadow missing
next to you on the pavement where you stand.
You will listen for the memory of a voice,
for that hopeful vibration, for some residue
of a fading chord, for explanation.
You will observe our marriage living in between:
the persistent growth of hair after combs are misplaced,
the nail beds mooning wax and wane against your teeth.
Someone will always insist there is a future absence
from this absence—
as if winter were not the anticipation of spring,
as if cold were not measured by the wanting
warmth of sunlight, as if our love were not punctuated
by these nights you did not intend to spend
in silence. October will sometimes end in a pale shudder,
like a collapsed lung gasping at another year
come and gone that I intended to go on
holding you. You will slip your hand into a patient glove
to feel how we both are haunted, and you will know
this lonesome divide cannot possibly be yours, alone.