The Leaving of Lydia

It’s not the her-shaped

hole in my life no amount

of memories could fill in

not the dint in the pillow

where her head had oft-times lain

nothing can erase.

It’s not witnessing the fire

lit up those lovely eyes,

burning ever dim,

nor the Blüthner, baby-grand – over

by the window, mocks me

with its speechlessness.

It’s not the proffering

of her hand when I leave

her with them, nor her saying,

Nice to meet you. What

did you say your name was,

again?

No...

It’s the being with her

without her

is doing me in.