His Shoes at the Door

I miss his shoes resting at my door,
His heart as I begin to snore,
The stories he’ll keep repeating,
His charming ‘it’s not just me’ thing.

I miss the way his apologies-
Don’t sound surreal,
Or pining to please,
But like a gentleman,
Sound complete.

I miss the sound of his footsteps,
Next to mine as darkness sets.
The bus rides and the swings,
The steps and our matching rings.

I love the way he lights up evenings,
And the telescope through which he sees things.
I love how I am still myself,
Even with him for hours.
That he admits to needing-
Some isolation flowers.

I love the way he holds me close
And kisses me in bed.
Even when I feel like a ghost,
Or look like something dead.

I love his dreary moods,
His cheerful moments, plenty,
His hands, his heart, his eyes, his mind-
His voice a solitaire gentry.

Someday he’ll be back in my space,
With his shoes resting at my door.
Until then I’ll write and swoon,
Waltzing through the storm.