The Door

the road still would have been
even had you been here

there would have been 
partings, callings,
voices down a wire

but I would have felt better
I believe
with belonging

the forehead at the wall
pressed - a physical
confirmation of no way through

no point lying flat on grass
and weeping
I will make my own way there
		before long

and not to meet you.
This place, I have never
understood it - never mine,

I live here under protest
at its ways, its doings,
its signs: there are no havens.

You took Eden with you
and I am exiled in the 
outer lands.  Here, there is

too much darkness
and vulnerability of flesh.

It hurts, the days, they score
direct hits.
I am always at your door.
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