Do you know that
I’ve turned missing you into an art?
I have perfected
the lonely language of waiting —
the endless irrational pacing
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,
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)