On My Own

On My Own

as I read A Man Called Ove

I stare at the emptiness that was you,
And try to put you back together
From bits of memory and words and
Old conversations we had at this long
Deserted table, each of us at our end,
And just our looks touching above its centre.

It’s a ragged picture of you that emerges,
Nowhere near as beautiful as you are,
Not how you were, when I could watch
You breathing. There’s a space now I
Couldn’t see through when you were
Here, and I was not on my own.

It’s a child’s stick drawing, this version
Of you, out of proportion, stuck together
Badly from one-dimensional bits of
Paper and glue. Even the photos in
The other rooms can’t do you justice,
So I admire the emptiness and think it’s you.

R 11.01.2024 19.02