My days are far from empty when you're gone;
I do not linger in an endless void,
Nor am I drawn out, sickly, pale, or wan.
But even on those days when I am joyed
There is an absent center to that joy
Which joins itself unto each moment's bliss
And makes of it a fragile, weak alloy
Not bad, but far less purely pleasant. This
Is your departure - thinking how much more
I would be happy if my joy were shared,
And how it was when we were one before.
So is my wheat of happiness part-tared,
My joy though joy still lessened. You aren't here
And so all happiness is partly queer.
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