Commas

I can feel your not-hereness-
the absence of your voice and the
not- next- to-meness of you.
My hand is empty
and my words are lost-
merely tolerated by the other-than-yous.
My footsteps hopscotch
solo along the graveyard of worms,
the wet concrete misses your steps next to mine
mismatched, scruffyrhythm stop start-dragstop-giggle-kiss-one-two
and it starts again.
But I haven’t heard our clumsy song,
just the heavy sighs of my frustrated justmeness
and the slippery-face-almost meets gravelness
of my un-witnessed falling.
Your name inserts itself between hellos and goodbyes
and anxiously churns into gibberish mindmud-
that, like a madwoman, they can’t hear but I repeat.
Repeat.
I poke and punch the air.
I wish there was a button
for the not here
back-to-you-there,
You.
Me.
Back.
Together in the same line.