Take This

It's boring all alone. That's not enough
To say she should be with me, or demand
She give up her own life; that's silly stuff,
Created by delusions of what's grand.
No, it's just one of oh so many things
That makes me think of her, and wish she were
Here with me, because her presence brings
Something I never have except with her
A sense that all is right; that calm is not
The same as boredom, and that things to do
Are never chores. With her, I always spot
The good in all the things I have to do
Or just why they should still be borne. Boredom
Is the least reason why I wish she'd come.