I miss you in a way I had forgotten
That mutually does injustice to both memory and the present
And that raises sideways pictures
From oceans, handfuls of air
And lit by fire palms,
By dates that you expected to be called off
The moment of your wake.

Loneliness is obtuse like then
Yet without the bitter and familiar smile
Of the hopeless desire.
It must be the memory of your steps around,
And of the candles, and of a dream of linen sheets,
Of the first tears, and of the first losses
When from the peak of the raged wave
My fingers reached your small palm.

I wait for you without hoping to see you
And the agony of anticipation is merely
Just like when one dresses all sleek
To make a grand impression
As the crowd watches him wait for
Someone that was obviously from the start
Never going to arrive.

However, you hurry.

P.S. That “A Susan sort of Sarah, a Jennyish Joanne” simply epitomizes Stephen Sondheim’s brilliance. Along with that one pause from Sweeny Todd, yes that one.


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