Your shoes are left, untouched, beside the bed,
With socks still tucked inside like a cocoon.
Your hat hangs on a rack, and I know soon
You’ll use it to adorn your chill-ed head
(Though it is only August; all, instead,
Are walking, naked-headed, as in June).
I walk beside the lake where, every noon,
You’d take your coffee and your toasted bread
And write ‘til evening, mind and belly fed,
And then return to me and our dark room.
I have a letter your wrote to me last May
Of magic words, your words, that did express
That, once you were gone, as you are gone today,
Of all the joys you had, I was the best.