The fear is not its loneliness, nor fear.
Though when it comes it creeps; blows, chills; leaves, leers,
The fear is love sighing in, falling back
Inwards upon itself, a bubble cracked,
A vacuumed cataract. It is the wind
Behind the door held open for a friend
Gone forever. The fear is one thing known:
No one will touch this door until I come home.

And if those years two spent behind it die
Like summer dying after autumn cries,
The fear is one alone left living here
Where we adored where we dined in. The fear
Is just this haunted house and dinner cold
In this new winter. How will I grow old
In debt to future hope and my past sold
To half its maker? Know not I, no more
Than how to say goodbye to just a door.