I have been thinking so much about you
and have written so much about you
without knowing precisely who you are.
I have slept in so many rooms
without having you at my side
and there are so many houses I have moved into
and out of again without you.
There are so many cities where I have not met you.
There are so many things I’ve worn out
or lost on my way to you,
and so many possibilities I have wasted,
so many lives, your presence, here and now,
makes me feel I have squandered,
so that now I cannot see you as other than
the spring light that occasionally brushes your cheek
or makes the glow in your eye burst into flame
leaving the shadows double deep and cold.