Lack

When she is gone time, which had slowed, speeds back
To full past full speed and it sweeps away
The million purposes of everyday.
Those, which had been in hiding, from her lack
Had thought to push their way from red to black,
But find themselves instead skipped over. They
Are missed: for in their presence was the way
To justify her absence, and the slack
It introduced. Instead the days are gone,
The time, no longer useful, goes to waste,
And what a minute with her had embraced
Becomes a week of sense. I think upon
The time with her, and what were then but hours
Are years to me, in sense, awareness, powers.