Geography is the better part of love,
proximity ineluctable as shared oxygen,
the daily exchange of atoms and molecules ensures
the mingling of bodies, if not souls. You left
taking everything but a few binder clips,
a stapler, three manila folders, and a spidery plant
with bare tendrils reaching, a toddler
hoping to be lifted. I carried it to my office,
set it at the window, watering it and not the memories
of your wiry jewfro, wind chime laugh, the raw onion ache
when a friend departs for another cubicle, or job, or city,
ending the coffees, chats, shared tuna sandwiches.
Continental drift widens oceans. In your absence,
I stopped remembering to miss you.
Meanwhile, the orchid was making buds.
Today, full to bursting, it exploded
in a cascade of purple and white blossoms,
sending November’s rain drops scattering for cover
along the clouded pane of streaked and grimy glass.