Missing

    
It is not that I lament
this solitude
nor look on it
with ingratitude for that which I
still have…but they
are cruel spirits who giveth
sweet liberty
with one hand
only then
to taketh away…

It rained today…like needles before the sun
came out;
but without a doubt, there could be
no streaking colours
painted for me
across a grey canvas sky…
for I
could not share them
or hold them,
still closer,
or ever tighter and golden
yet, with you…

and as life chewed at me
and gnawed my bones
and my flesh and
aching soul
I wanted nothing more,
right then, nothing less,
than not to travel,
and to breathe, and think
like fire,
all alone. And I wanted
not to miss you
and a time,
and a circumstance
I have come to know as home among
small hours
that I have leave
sometimes
to call my own.