Surrounded here by faces sharp and cold,
I try to navigate the tasks of this grim phase,
In jarring streets where bitter hours unfold,
And many trivial errands clutter up the days.
The calls are dead; no screen restores the sight,
Surely you keep the vigil on your distant shore.
Maybe you miss my presence in the fading light,
But know that in this exile, I am missing you more.
Oh I miss the steeping coffee cups, the vapor’s rise,
The quick, daily dissolved reprieve upon the screen,
The steady anchor on call, of your constant eyes,
And every minor mutual habit of ours that has been.
Hemmed in by friction where no grace is shown,
Truly, you are the single peace I’ve ever known.