Romeo's Hours

The hours are not empty with her gone;
The day, nor night, is not a void of time.
Indeed, each evening welcomes in the dawn
And sees me waking through the sun's low climb
For I spend almost every absent hour
In contemplation of her missing face,
And, held within my adoration's power,
Fill up within my mind her absent place
With conversation via other means
And fond imagination as its aid;
Adding unto the commerce of our screens
The promises we have already made
Of love; and linger in this halfway state:
Time filled, but strangely, at a weird cut rate.