I've lost the art of being without her.
There was a time when how long it had been
Since I last lacked her mattered; now, I'm sure,
Though it had been an hour, I'd begin
To feel the pains that used to take a week,
While weeks, which used to be my currency,
Are endless episodes of hopeless, bleak
Despair. I used to think it bad to be
Without her for a month - now two days feels
Already just as long. I had the touch
Of knowing, when the Megabus's wheels
Had rolled away, exactly just how much
Time it had been - but now times matters little:
When she is gone, I mountainize a tittle.
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