Absence Makes the Mind Go Yonder

A lover's angst is like none other.

'Tis not born of awkwardness
like that of a teenager.
Does not circulate proud blood
throughout the frenzied patriot
that will run cold
from schism or death.
It is devoid of final hour
hand wringing.

For there is no final hour to fretfulness
of this sort.
It lurks in doorways.
Follows you out to get the mail.
Waits at the window-
just like you.
Kills time
while knifing expectations.


When it leaves, it promises to be back in a fortnight.


Which is more
than you can say
for they.