You've Come To Supper After All Poem by cahen thrips

There is a vacancy at my supper table,
seven of us instead of eight:
we are one short at the head.

I thought of inviting a neighbour
to make a round number if not four couples
but what if you come after all,
approaching my door with improbable footsteps
I half recognise from memories of you
now dimmed by permanent quietus.

I drift but jolt back by sudden laughter,
their humour lost to me;
I abide their noise but must unlisten.

Those unconsoling sighs and saddening moans:
no more than wind in a chimney now snuffed
where once your flames spat crackling embers.

I loved the sight of your arching spine -
you stooped with cupped hands to light a candle,
stretched and smiled when you caught my eye
for you knew what I was thinking.

Now all I see are doleful illusions,
your face sleight of light in a window pane,
a chiaroscuro ghost unsummoned.

My eyes weigh down
to an unused napkin
ringed by constant habit.

Nothing tastes as when you were here
and anyway my guilt for coping false
feeds me so my appetite is lost too -
I pick at food as I pick at life.

Your distinctive scents and soft echoes
should have evanesced by now -
I was immersed in you too long.

But you come, ruthful hand in mine,
fingertips in secret code against my palm -
impress of your touch will never really
leave me though you did - I forgive you.

It seems I've missed another conversation;
they came here to keep me company
but I wish they'd go away now
so I can be my silent self and we
can be alone again.

February 2023