A day without you

A day without you is not a good thing.
Nothing so romantic as not being able to breathe.
Turning blue. Choking. Being put on ventilator.
Nothing like that.
It's not starvation. Not like going without lunch
And then wondering why the world looks bloody black.
Why its hard to work, why people I usually like seem infuriating,
Why I'm treating the empty boxes in the kitchen cupboard
As though they stone-pelted my dog.
No, not like that.
It's not hunger in other parts, either. I know how to deal with that by now.

On a day without you, I don't feel inclined to
hang a white flag in my window. The sky doesn't pour tears.
It doesn't feel clammy in my favourite ruined shoes,
I don't shiver with a premonition of pneumonia.
On such a day I don't viciously click through Photos of You,
looking for Her face. I don't expect to find tokens of phantom lovers
While sniffing for you on your cast-aside clothing.
(Your nicer clothing, of course.
Your socks smell of you, but not in a way I want to remember.)

A day without you is not a day spent missing you.
A day without you is only a day at the end of which
I'll wish I could tell you about it—you'd
understand this day better than anyone else I could tell.