Snakes miss Summer,
Sunday evening misses Friday Afternoon,
the tongue misses sugar,
Autumn misses Summer,
I miss your hand upon my chest,
as it slips beneath my shirt
to feel for my beating heart.
I miss you like apples miss the tree,
like a detective misses the mystery,
like distant lovers miss being between the sheets.
I miss you like leaves in Autumn miss the tree.
I want to ash your memory
like cigarette butts; I spit and cuss,
but I still miss you like
rain misses the sky as it passes,
my lips missing your last kisses,
the glove misses its last hits,
pleasure misses pain as it passes.
In December, I miss July;
at our last goodbye,
I miss our first hello;
and in that strength of sorrow,
I miss my tender bones.