There were no screams.
No china splitting
into stars on the wall. I would have missed
anyway, and now I miss you more.

There are no wounded;
your shirts still have their sleeves,
limbs unsevered. And if you could drive,
I wouldn’t have scrawled your windscreen
with lipstick expletives.

We shake hands
directly with a look. Lids unweighted
with guilt. There was no she,
no him to steal me from your arms
with a smug grin. There is only

this light kiss on hair,
the I above you,
a goodbye with syllables 
falling heavier
without an embrace to net them into love.