YOURS IS THE HAND I TOUCH

Yours is the hand I touch
when I touch my own;
yours are the eyes in my dreams
when I see myself.
Yours is the memory I have almost lost--
it has been with me so long.
You are the perfect being
at the centre of my mind:
the whole bright world around me
is reflected in your skin.

I fear loving you too much,
dread caring more than you care.
There is no solitude in general--
only your particular absence.
Looking over your shoulder
I see death coming along time;
I have planned your funeral
and will mourn deeply.

Over and over again
I hear your feet on the stairs,
your voice echoing in the next street.
When I am quite certain
that you are really arriving,
I assume an attitude of unconcern.