I am missing you . . . .
For many seconds, minutes, hours,
For many days, weeks, months,
Truth to tell, for many years,
And no doubt many years to come.
I will be missing you. . . .
My days have been constructed of random moments,
Waiting patiently in anticipation or is it regret,
For some moment that had passed long ago unnoticed,
Waiting for some moment that is about to arrive.
The waiting and the missing made me feel more alive.
I will always miss you. . . .
You were suddenly taken away,
Gone as though you didn’t wish to stay,
A moment that left eternity behind,
Endlessly roaming the corridors of my mind,
In place of that sweet smile you always returned in kind.
Day after day missing you . . . .
Where once the heart was full to overflowing,
The heart but a winterland where it is continually snowing.
I sometimes hear your voice and still think you are there.
If I hear your whisper in my ear, then I have nothing to fear,
No reason to suppose I will never see you year upon year.
Just missing you . . . .
All I can think of is what would have happened?
What would have happened if the reverse were true ?
If I had lost the grip on your hand and I suddenly went missing?
Would you also be missing me with the same intensity,
Missing me with the same intensity that I am missing you?
Missing you enough to wonder . . . . Were you ever here?
A shadow vanishing from view under the streetlight’s glare?
I whirled to life like a fan, but there was no one there,
Only a tell-tale scent in the shadows of someone, anyone.
Standing there in the dark night but a phantom filling the air,
A ghost filled with mist, a white silhouette, almost someone.
For this reader, the Almost Someone of your sharing is of universal presence, i.e., again for this reader, you've described the duality of love, the self love and the object love, suggesting that object love is the fantasy and the self love is the reality. For, as many of believe, one cannot expect a reciprocal object love, (another person)without first achieving and maintain the love of self, that creation of value that once it's important to you, it has the chance to be important to others. Without that allowance, life itself can become "almost someone," but never the inner companion of intimacy, or the extension of same holding hands with one's created reality. BTW, unlike most posits of this elusive of all elusives, yours serves well the unsentimental reader, the ones that shun the Hallmark Card sense of reality.
Contraband Marriage, traveling along the hemline of loving after incarceration, is a love story written in lyric and free form, set in reality with a different ever after.
Each person is but a grain of sand resting beside the sea. This thought sets the tone for Jill Eisnaugle’s latest poetry collection, Beside Still Waters.
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