07.03.05

it is my task to not think of
you a hundred times a day;
to occupy myself with the quotidian,
the spiritual even,
but not you.
and if it comes up in conversation
by association or conjecture, "you",
it is to be a kind of mourning
a kind of letting go.
i wish there were a contract
that i could sign, telling me
in small or large font that
if my love were true enough,
that i could trust that my
number would come up one of
these dayz. that somehow by
default the sun would rise 700
days from now, & you would
return & i, i'd be figured out,
everything finally okay like a
bath filled with water warm
& ready for displacement.