I want to see this with you

I want to see this with you.

Not to show you, or

To paint, prosaically plaster up

The reds and greens and all

But everything that I can feel

As I now sit here head to heel

In the closest low of light

And here I begin again in

Failing, flow'ry words all falling thin.

I do not,

Cannot continue to tell you

Or to save these things away

For when you return someday.

Why return?

As if I had you before

In days that are only red and gold

In backward angles ages old.

Could I then have been complete?

Have it, had it, but lost it somewhere,

The it that can be only it and nothing

But to vanish as soon as ever else.

I want to feel this with you

With you HERE

Though I don't think I AM HERE,

Not really.

Do I fear myself,

The present place and time

And absence bless'd, lone, sublime?

That there is never more

To here than me, the whore

Of time and thought,

And what stings the more,

Of love and silence.

I've pushed you out,

while you've been gone.

The heavy days of long

Pauses, nothing e'er to find

But what you left.

I cannot see your face

Or hear your laugh,

Nor remembers my mind -

Dusty in a verdant-gilded-box -

If you could laugh at all.

A POX on that shabby attic

that holds naught but the roof.

I do not know if you were

fair and kind, or strong.

I wonder if I will ever meet you

In silent, dusk-webbed truth,

And yet you float throughout me.

Clearer than a day ago,

Or less to see.

It's the smudges that make you out.

And now, at night, a sudden bout

Of clouded sight!

You are nothing

But all the world you make me feel

And left me to walk without.