tell me if this is all true

When You Are Not Here 


When you are not here, the blanket
is your skin, furred from touch,
fragrant with sweat. The curtains 

tremble and shut like your eyes 
from a breeze of sleep. Distant 
thunder form words of denial 

banging on the lid of my mind. 
The evening sky stuttering 
on a threshold of night 

is an unthinkable moment of parting. 
Behind the cloud, a promise of peace
glows like a moon shyly hiding. 

Cyril Wong