Missing You


“Do you miss me?”
she asked me tonight.
“Of course I miss you.
How could I not?” I said.
“How much do you miss me?”
she asked in that way
women ask questions
they wrap around
emotion-tripped IEDs.
They’ll look at you with
an expression of expectation
that your answer will bring
the sensitive revelation
they crave from you.
Guys seek yes or no.
Black or white.
Click or boom. Maybe
with a spot of gray-scale
adjectival variance
for comparison purposes only.

I sighed and said,
“I miss you more than
I ever thought this man
could miss another,
with more tears than any
ocean could hold,
with the lonesome chill
of a blanketless night
on a new moon prairie.”
“Then smile,” she said.
“C’mere, I’m still here.”
I opened my eyes and scanned
the room, reached for her
empty pillow beside me,
pressing my hand to it,
warming and denting it as if
her head still did.

I rested my face upon
the momentary warmth and
inhaled the vague aroma of her.
still left to me
“Yes you are,” I said,
and went back to sleep.

7 thoughts on “Missing You

      • It is definitely meant as a compliment Joe because it meant I felt great empathy. To be honest, it reminded me of my father after my mother passed away. They had been married for 66 years and he was generally a rather stoic man. However, sometimes I’d catch him with his face in her pillow in the mornings and he never slept on her side of the bed until the day he joined her in heaven. Your poem brought those poignant memories back to me.

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