My Summer Solstice

I miss my poetry.
The common sights are mostly composed of blank screen and ink-blotted sheet.

I miss the songs.
The sound becomes less soothing and the beat more dreary.

I miss the butterflies.
The restlessness caused by glances and chance meeting gradually escapes.

I miss the anticipation.
Would the phone ring? Will I be there if it does?

I miss the touch.
A hand enfolding another hand is replaced by mere words, or worse by illusion.

I miss being incomplete.
The curiosity for what’s next? and will there be?
And the faith that only one person can make me feel safe Slowly die out.

I miss having someone who keeps me waiting.
I miss small fights and making-up. I miss falling.