In the weeks after your death,
your face, the sound of your voice
disappeared from my memory,
then came back, projected onto people
in the street, turning up everywhere, as if
you had swung into a darkness where
not even thoughts could reach, and then
echoed back, amplified. The dark side
of the moon perhaps, I remember you telling me
how the moon dragged all living things towards it
and we had to fight against its pull. Too late
now to balance out the pull
it had on you, for you to give your side
of this conversation, bring me down to earth,
tell me strange facts I hadn’t heard before.
Gone, like your pain and all the things
we could have done together, your smile,
your restless intelligence, your touch.
I could have phoned you once, or wrote, but now
can’t reach to you, can’t lose you from my sight.
