Missing you

is hearing your drums when I play my guitar.

It’s picturing curls as I drive in my car.

It’s grasping for air.

It’s batting the wind.

Having you

is sweetly fictitious for truth is a bummer;

as actual as Olaf  in the dead of summer.

It is fleeting.

It is mock.

Loving you

is fantastic and simple, excruciating and sore.

It’s wishing all remained as it had been before.

It’s knowing.

It’s going.

Losing you

is being a river reluctant to flow;

getting uninvited and still wanting to go.

It is unfitting and yet somehow fair.

Like being hung… by a nun.

By tuttysan © 2015

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