I’ve been waiting for you to come back. I’ve waited in other houses, for a car to
pull up outside, for a man to return for his dinner. I’m used to it. I will wait and hope your death is not
permanent and that the other who has taken your place leaves soon, because I
don’t like him as much.
Who knows where you went.
You were there for a season - a genius, an artist and a mystery. You made me so happy. I saw your death beginning and I tried to
warn you, but you wouldn’t be told. The
blackness swallowed you up little by little and all those things I loved about
you disappeared. I am left with the other
now; I tiptoe around his growing irritation at my questioning presence,
obsequiously fulfilling his needs, in the hope that I might entice you
back. Occasionally there are glimpses
and I have the comfort of hope.
If I could take my love tinted glasses off, I would be clear
sighted enough to see that the transformation is complete. You are dead and gone. I have made a commitment to an illusion and
it has slipped away, leaving me with what is real and forever. I am left with the memories, last year’s
journal and the stories you once wrote. I
read them in these early hours of January.
I deny disappointment. Life will
go on, a new beginning based on what never was.
