Scorned, Bereft, and Innocent

Go. And whither blows the wind that feeds
your righteousness, contempt?
Leave, while even now the echo taunts, the shadow falls
and all the sun-hewn scents that made you man to me
still linger.
Go, but were your cup more fit to join you. Your warmth
still traceable in circles on the coffee stain.
Where? Where your hopes? Your doubts made pluck and
reticent conviction whilst to my evening breast they’d lain
embosomed? Where your hair to stroke?
Whither, then? For ever whither goes the
wind that blows contempt and dust.
Where? Where will you go?