Absence is presence, but not of the same.
His absence brings the presence of sadness,
And a presence of sorts, who lives in my mind
But is simply lacking
In smell
In form
In wonder.

His absence coincides with the presence of my hands,
Touching my forlorn, desperate face,
In places he might touch if he was present.

The dawning of the sadness
Upon another lonely absence,
And an inadequate presence trying to catch up.