Simple, no need for embellishments.

I know more than you guess, less than I think, but that's inane.

The point is, I'd listen to it all. I can't say I'm not afraid of what might come from your lips, but that it is a fear worth facing.

Because you are.

A year on.

Back here, and now.

The Norman belfry in the town centre and I stare each other in the eye, just like at the end/beginning of each day since I moved to these quarters.

You've never been here. You're everywhere.

The motorway hums and I can see all those trains, borne by their bridges over the valley.

Born and swallowed yet again by tunnels.

Despondent, bereft of you.

(Yes, damn it! You)