The recoil of my heart tightens
as your absence calls for consideration
in the vicinity of a sentence uttered by the character
of a novel that you’ll probably never read.
I must get forwards.
Between words which are not yours
is still enough space for your fingers
to move me, though no longer to tears
(truth is best). The reason is simple.
The sight has now turned
into the fragment of a vision that silently unreels
each time I fancy myself being caught unawares
by a four-year old remembrance.
Yes, I surely do my best
to be the hero of my story,
though, admittedly, the plot remains yours.
