You may think I don't remember
what my soul knows of
your coming and leaving, of
our hurting and forgiving

so that when I walk along
what might have been our place
in some distant life,
I shake hands with the hills,
offer a tired hug to the shore

and they know me and kiss my heels.
They ask me where you are, and
forgive me for admitting
you won't let me know

They tell me to go home
and love you anyway
which is what I do
content with my morning coffee
alone.