Missing 19

Walking the paths we used,
Every step an echo of happiness.
The ghost of you, a hole in
The fabric of my world
By my side, filling my life with
Your eyes, and voice, and
The soul of you, spreading over
Me like warm oil. Remembered joy,
And now this absence that
Crowds out all other things.

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Missing 18

Sitting in the park
talking with you in my head.
Some conversations are sad,
some hopeful.
Mostly sad.
But even when sad,
there in my head,
I know you care for me
because you are here
sitting
talking
and trying to understand.

Missing 16

I remember the last time we made love
like a photograph
frozen in a crystal
sealed in a bottle
and cast adrift
floating in time
circling in the currents of chance
bound for some distant shore
or the dark depths
to sink into the mud
and never see the light
again.
In that bottle
is everything that matters
waiting for the impossible chance
that the shore is found
that the beachcomber is you
that the glint catches your eye
that you find me again
and open me
and smile.

Missing 12

The cords that bind me to you run
through my heart,
sweetly pierced,
and every movement the most
erotic friction, a
divine chafing. The longing fills me
more vividly than a
shouting orgasm with anyone else.
The colours of missing
you blind me to the world, and I
consider it a fair trade.