My Dear, My Love, My Lie

Alas, in the entirety of my composition I see, I feel, now, a part missing whose shape is strange, a form which nothing, without and within, might fill; It is you, My Dear, whoever, wherever you are; you are the missing part, My Love, the phantasmal modicum; One day you will come to me, and the hole will be plugged, and this frosty winter draft will cease to blow about the creaking corridors of my being; My Dear, the leaks will stop; I won’t feel so heavy, so down; I will be full yet light, cumuli; I will be complete; alas, you are but a fiction, My Love, a lie, a distant note of hope, dishonest as a child’s laugh above a funeral’s solemn load; For it too will cease and perish as the white dove, above turmoil and war, will fall and rot; But you’ll see me through this hueless, harrowing day of trees crawling about my blank, birdless sky; My Dear, for now, at least, My Love, for now, at least, My Lie, from now till the last, everywhere, nowhere.