What I've not said is that
though I've spent these hundred thousand
days beside you, laughed
with your sad laugh, wept
in the mirth of your suffering;
though I've kissed the solitude of
your exhausted paintings,
there are paintings of
you I have kept hidden.
There are memories
you do not own.
There are a million things
you must not see lurking
in the shadows of a Sunday Afternoon.

There are
two things:

One. I look
for you once, thrice
in the congregation
and can't find you.
The preacher mumbles on about King David.
I look for you, but can't
hypnotize myself by the waving of your hair
or the fire-ice oscillations of
your heart.

Two. I pour
an extra glass of champagne
under the candlelight, in case
you stop by, in case
you see the steak, salad, and dinner rolls,
in case
you sit down, beside me,
in the place I have set for you,
and kiss me,
then want a drink.

And after these, a moment,
when I am caught alone in the native hues
of a night-shaded living room,
burnt with the scent of resolution.
I shudder, then listen for
your voice, the indiscernible
words of a song, pleading
for me to find you.