the week that you left
the skies celebrated;
a glorious, vulgar display of colour and light.

You would have shrugged your shoulders
ignored it for Temptation Island
and a bit of burrata on toast.

Or you could have dragged
someone out to the ocean
where you can revel in the celestial show,
washed down with a bottle or three of Tui.

But from where I’m standing
in the darkness of our deck
vainly squinting at the horizon,
I don’t see anything.
I don’t see you,
didn’t really know you.

All I see is blackness.
All I see is nothing,
and the vast empty night sky.