Although, surely,
I feel like abscess of your absence
like stale cigarettes in my chest,
it also means nothing to me;
the certainty of your presence,
glowing next to mine (which flickers),
wanes the carcinogen of my missing you.
It is the same comfort
which assures me that
I will not become jealous -
enraged in a green to match my
mossy aura.
I remember so little of the
narcotic-fuelled hours,
but vividly I recall their happening.
I recall the peace and the
reciprocated adoration and admiration
that is so alien to me.
Hibernate, honey; die-bernate if you must.
I know that the yellow of my
wall will be your backdrop,
and my wavering moss will steady.