Is - Not - Is

It
is the days like this
that I miss you most.
A selfish man at heart -
it is not the silent house
echoing with the strains
of "Welcome to the Machine"
followed
by "Wish You Were Here," -
though, I suppose it is - in part.

It
is not the cold grey
of the day with an eternal falling
of thoughts from the sky - so heavy
they push smoke from fire earthward -
I suppose though, in part - it is.

It
is not the chill that seeps
into the Bones no matter how
Franklin's Dragon crackles and pops, nor
the wish to feel a human touch on flesh
not medicated; equipped
with programming paddles, needles,
or drills - though in part, I suppose
it is.

It
is not the prospect of another
silent dinner eaten in solitude
thinking of sounds that mean life
somewhere else - the laughing, whining,
bickering, questions - giggles that are
little people; though I suppose it is - in part.

Not
any of these things - all
of these things - it is a selfish heart
knowing on a "normal" day
you are busy -
today, even more than others.

It is a man,
a bag of Bones
worshiping the light,
kneeling on the floor
to the tune of Paganini.

It is because
I am a man
unable,
unwilling,
to discard any thought
of you.

_{(Drafted for Somebody 01-24-2010)}