Schism

For Rosie

I miss you,

and the air's grown brittle,

and light a little grey. 

Everything's just less than whole

and joy's like milk left out a touch too long. 

If two become one and one is too long gone,

the other frets and frays to less than one. 

Grief is proof of love they say,

but love unloved seems frail and grey. 

You live, you've journeyed far away,

and will return. You say your love

by phone and text. I know it's true.

But this still feels like death postponed,

like meaning sapped, like eyesight dimmed. 

Come back: hold me, talk to me, be with me. 

Come back.