At first I didn’t miss you, not like this, not internally.
Then you crept up on my conscience, and caught me off guard with a discordant twang on my heartstrings.
I began to miss the material things: your convenience, your closeness. Your togetherness.
Then I caught myself looking out of the window on my bus commute and being mildly surprised at the wrong roll of scenery unspooling on the other side of the glass. The miles between us made my heart grow fonder of your round-about ways and breezy countenance. I missed looking back from that point to your nestled form resting in the crook of your own arm, one toe dipped in the sea.
Then at night your sounds familiar: I know you’re restless in the wind as it creaks your joints and whistles and the seagulls wake you before it’s even light. That sound I cease to hear when I’m with you splinters through me when it catches me unawares now. And even the light itself seemed to last longer when I was with you. Those patient evenings, my beach walks by your side: none of these tame fields where rush of car replaces crush of sea in the white noise of the distance.
This is no tangible an ache: more of an empty, mistaken void of trust like leaning on a desk for many months, the unnoticed prop missed when my elbow slips to lean on air.
Or as a foot’s anticipating step falters on a non-existent stair.
I’m not sure this does what I want it to. Comments and suggestions greatly appreciated. (Picture credit: Message in a Bottle Poetry Magazine – click the image for link.)
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Dear Bracknell: Valentine to a Place I Love to Hate It’s easy to like writing badly about a place to which you attribute little value. A good way to write about somewhere you don’t like is to write it a love letter. So here’s a challenge: find the place you care about least, and write about that.