That Which Was

Like those
who scratch out
faces in photographs,
I imagine a landscape
where you exist no more.
It is lovely, lit by
late afternoon, slanting light.
Shadows lay like panthers
around hedges. Out back
where the lawn drops
forgotten into shrubbery,
Blue Spruce shoot
straight into the sky,
sudden highs
during depression.
How unfulfilled I was,
so unsatisfied. I existed
in your shade, perhaps,
because it was easy
like mushrooms growing
on the dead forest floor.
These days,
I thrive in my own light
never blaming you for
who I couldn't be
or things in me
that never took root.