It is only a ghost that preoccupies this space.
A curve of your hair, photographed at the mirror’s edge.

I can own that absence in images still:
Your hand holds a dish, or a ceramic dog,
intuited in slips and glazes.

Your fingers do cusp the solid ceramic, 
but a boy’s longing swells from Autumns past –
Forlornly there, I incanted,
from cold steps overlooking the valley.
Sad now, for that melancholy boy.

On the valley’s far side, the night’s amber necklaces glowed and said nothing
from a field of new houses, where other girls lived, 
to whom I’ve written nothing.

This brings up a question.

I didn’t ask what is it,
simply went and made that visit.

Although I bravely drove the car,
with you beside me, noting my inexperience,
I was nervous and said little.

Beyond that, we did play chess, remotely,
exchanging messages.
It was a comfort when I was alone in Madrid.

And the more is in the mind, for being
not much in the day.

Unexpectedly, I received an urgent warning of heartbreak.
From a genuine friend, speaking earnestly, from a true heart.
So with sure effort, reluctant intent and new found strength,
my jaw set by a clear and rational adult mind,
I bedded myself onto life’s firmer path.
True to my word, shoulders squared
I forked away, with another’s hand and with no means back.
And true, I gained my beloved daughters and this solid home and chair.

So, bravely, alone once more,
I draw courage and ask, 
and await a reply, which time has made irrelevant.
The autumn’s boy expects silent indifference.

It is only a ghost that preoccupies this space.
A curve of your hair, photographed at the mirror’s edge.

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Image: Copyright Charlotte Salt (www.instagram.com/charlotte_salt_)