For Martyr Valentinus (or even Lupercalia…)

Missingness

I knew she wasn’t home

When the cat came to greet me

Cuddled up on the window’s ledge

And hungry for his love

He knows my returning tones

No-one had been there to keep him warm

And he pounces to the door

To welcome and to beg me

I knew her for some short time

Before I presented her

With a parcel of myself

Gilt-wrapped and silk-tied

Many hours had been used in preparation

Of that second skin

And with a lightness of touch

And tenderness of intuition

She undid my heart

And unveiled the reality of self

I know not what mysteries she uses

In her companionship of me

But I know the missingness of her

Is impossible to bear

I knew she wasn’t home

The curtains too were parted

And the milk lay idle on the step

Where the cat cries for love

So I lifted the bottles

Closed the door and gave him warmth

And switched the television on

For false comradeship

We knew each other longer

The intricacies perhaps now too easy

Our parcels so emptied

That we cannot further rip the paper

Of our selves

But still the missingness

Is perhaps the thing that excites us

With no missingness

Will those selves find stagnant love?

I knew she wasn’t home

The dishes still need washing

And the home still lacks the willingness

I knew she wasn’t home

because I’ve waited there for too long

And she didn’t come down

And the bed was cool

PS: I told the cat

I told the cat it was called loving

This warming stroking snuggling thing

He nuzzled my hand and padded my lap

And fell curling asleep