The Other Me

I will already be cold by the time he comes home.

All day I picked up fallen leaves
to give him a new view, rearranged
the furniture to impede his routine,
lit a fire to warm the space
his absence spares.

Between us the moon cycles twice before
his eyes catch mine,
and I am the transgressor.

Our distance was once productive,
still enough to support my call;
now I can turn my head in every direction
and remain alone.

I was sure to find him waiting when I came
through the kitchen door, ready to meet me
like a landing dove
his nest. 

But I fear I cannot hold him,
poor container I am.

He will have to enfold himself to find me here.