Ache

I seek her absent in the evening air
As if the fall of night should conjure her
I know beyond a doubt she is not there
And yet I find I still must wish she were
Hoping against my inner certainty,
Pretending what I wish for might be true
Despite the fact I know it cannot be.
The couch bears only one that should bear two
The meals uneaten fill the bulging fridge
The hours lengthen when no voices speak.
And still it flits about me like a midge
I cannot see nor squash: the little squeak
Of unwarranted hope that will not die
Giving my longing soul the constant lie.