sometimes i get the strangest feeling
that you’ve always been here
and just now stepped out for a smoke

so i wait for you to come back in
with the smell of it hanging on,
and curled, lingering lazy, in your hair
the way my fingers want to do

but you don’t come back in
and i can’t blame you
you were never here

so i watch the door for you
i scan the room at bars and parties,
but none of the interest or disdain
on the faces there bears any weight or meaning,
for none of those faces belong to you

but i don’t see you
how could I?
you can't possibly know 
how i miss you.

by now you’d think i’d realize
that i will not see you, driving,
but it has not stopped me, 
it could not stop me from looking

because I want your smoke-filled mouth,
the plenty Solomon sang about, 
things worth fighting for,
things worth hunting for

things beyond the scope and range
of this feeble faltering language,
a worth greater than any tongue employed,
no loanword coming late, nor overdue,
no root left un-dug.

and should there be four walls strong enough to hold us,
come on home to me,
stretch your legs on this warm ground.
we’ll stitch a patchwork peace 
enough to cover both of us

let's stick together,
like smoke on fingers:
washed,
but not fading.