absence minded

i have always been so preoccupied with all the things i have left behind.

so i drag them around with me.

i take you out, i take you home.

it is true that i picture you exactly as i left you - bearded and smudged like a memory aged and too well worn.

now each detail you provide in letters i imagine you writing to me from the branches of swaying trees alters you momentarily, and then reverts you to the original image i have of you under high frescoed ceilings i believed i could reach.

you take me more than three hours of knowing, and years since of not knowing.

endless hours at my north-facing window, and now at my desk. you are here with me and thousands of miles away, a franked postage stamp - historical and expired.