The Absolute

i do not wish to fret
over the time we have left,
however long that may be,
but once in a while
the worry glides over me,
like water droplets on the wall,
it sneaks up on me
like the crack in the window
and the broken hinge on the door,
there are dark days
when i am forced to think that
maybe you won't want this anymore
and maybe you won't want me.
i will no longer trace the lines of your back
with my finger slowly in the night
and i will not hold your tired head
in my long, craving palm.
to think of a life in which i do not
spill my coffee on your shirt
in the mornings before work
does not make sense
because what is the point of living
if the taste
of your last cigarette
is not fresh on my breath?