What You Are Not

I saw you running around the lake on Saturday. You were not looking at me. Or maybe you were, but not when I was looking at you, when I was seeing you jog to the left of me and when I followed your back into the distance. I was not trying to remember your breathing. I was trying not to think of the music on your ipod. Not noticing the clothing that you wore, the clothing that used to intermingle with mine in our dryer, on our limbs.

            I was trying not to notice these things because you are not in my life. You are not in my bed each night. You are not walking in the door with a little smile on your face. You are not calling me goofy or teasing me for spilling and being clumsy. You are not walking with me in twilit evenings on new-family blocks. You are not telling me about the starlings who chased you on your run.

            You are not in my bed but you are no longer missing from bed either. You are not lying to me. You are not lying to me. You are not lying to me.

           

I guess because you are not lying to me it makes me miss you lying next to me. I guess because you are not in my life, I cannot help wondering where in life you are. Where are you in this universe? Besides running away in front of me, being exactly where you should not.