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 lack of skill,
tense, we were gladly interrupted by your friend.

After that, we did play chess, remotely,
exchanging messages.
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, now alone, I asked, 
and awaiting a reply,
that autumn’s boy expects indifference.
He has created this, haunting and all.

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_)