Retreat

You are packing up for retreat.
I hold you and we both cry.
I've become attached to you, you say.
I find it ironic and right as rain,
that you are going to find
the unbound essence of things,
set free the little angels that
somehow become tethered to us,
let your definition warp like a willow,
become still as a ghost at tea,
and that you are mine forever.

When you return,
I will be loud and ungainly,
fumbling and moody,
but my love for you will be
like a cup
I have put away
most quietly and gently,
since you left.