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Do you know that

I’ve turned missing you into an art?

I have perfected

the lonely language of waiting —

the endless irrational pacing

predictably accompanied

by the pitiful action,

of hopefully looking out windows.

A melancholic compulsion

of seeing your phantom face

peering past random passing souls.

It’s only your memories

that keeps me going,

that keeps me from breaking.

I am pushed forward by recall …

the tiny sparkle in your eyes,

the glint of sunlight on your hair,

the familiar scent of cigarette

… on your skin, its taste lingering,

as well, full well

… on your warm incessant lips,

like dark chocolate,

bittersweet, addicting.

And the whole house, it seems

just like me, doesn’t know how

to get by without you.

We’re missing you now —

the still air hovering

breathing against cold lifeless walls,

the rustling curtains bursting

with the turbulence of your silence,

the floorboards echoing

the certainty of your absent footfalls ….

Last night, your side of the bed

gaped open like a wound

throbbing in the emptiness of

… your warm breath,

ruffling my hair

… your soft lips

kissing my forehead

… your nose nuzzling

my neck as you pull me closer …

tickling, and in that brief instant

in that small slice of eternity

so deceivingly comforting ….

As I lie alone again tonight

I cannot help but wonder

how people like you and I

have willingly fallen time and again

in this hopeless misery

in this dangerous quest of completion,

of finding oneself in the eyes of another.

(“Rainy Day Window”. Photo. pixshark.com)

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