While You're Away
coreyswords.substack.com
Once more the storm is howling, so says Yeats. He prayed for his daughter, yet I’ve never met a prayer, only hope.
We cope.
The second you leave, I haunt your space in the living room—or you do—I never can tell. I wander around traces of you and am eventually drawn to the handprinted windows where dolls meet for tea on sills. I look beyond the rooftops and name clouds over the distant treeline. The sky changes like a mood ring. Street noises mimic violin strings and carry the sounds of Bach’s Chaconne. How I feel reminds me of coming down from so many chemicals. No amount of forethought prepares me for your departures, let alone your absences. So I cling to your tumbler and admire it as one might an urn on a mantle.