please pardon the effusive rambling/beer goggles of this poem

"Off the Map"

He was nowhere to be found,
not even in the [ ] corners
of your head.

He was not he, exactly -
someone else had replaced his absent
stance at the front bar,
closing his face on yours
and mouthing some distraction.

This did not explain
the substitution, you knew it
in the rehearsed moral of the sequence.
He tells you, slowly,
something about unavailability.
He's unavailable for now.
What could that mean?

A message in pieces,
delivered not to you:
how he, the one missing
between episodes of sleep,
found a night to be
alone, couldn't
stand what the world
didn't say to him,
that it couldn't sing.
He leapt from the N train,
the bridge-junction nowhere
close to home.
Gone in metal, or water,
the way he wanted.

Then, you cried.
Then, you wept until it woke you.
The kind of mourning which
stays, bravely, dry.