What conceit is this
that dares to miss
that which I instinctively
keep at bay
to imagine your smile,
see your joy,
and regret their loss
complicit as I am
in their absence.

To salute you in ode
and traffic in the angst
your absence engenders
all the while
holding back,
safely in the shadows,
from behind the door
as you enter the room.

A word would end it,
this separation of fates,
this darkness
that veils my presence
and keeps us apart
yet silent I remain,
lost to you,
a rumour of existence
and no more.