Missing

What is this thing called missing?
A human weakness or pure emotion,
The thought of him stays constant,
And only him I crave, I have wanted.

Away from him I lie,
Unable to smell or touch his skin,
The longing runs deep in my veins,
The missing kind of hurts.

The more I think of it the worse it gets,
Perhaps ‘missing’ is like a virus which mutates,
And the more you fuel its life,
The more you feel in despair and strife.

I’ve never been one to miss or be missed,
And shy away from those who declare it,
It frightens me that someone would need me,
Because what if I’m not able to sooth their missing.

Yet those times when I have truly felt it,
I understand it more and fear it less,
It’s almost endearing to know someone misses you,
A comfort so tender it leaves you yearning.

Despite this I don’t know how I feel about it,
The minds’ consumption with something unattainable,
The frustration and longing pains in my soul,
Perhaps the reward is worth the wait.

And in the missing does the mind wonder recklessly,
Constructing realities based on fear,
Or is this a symbol of a deeper conscience,
Meaning the missing takes different shapes and forms.

I have missed before fearlessly,
When love was solid and assured,
I suppose this missing did not pain me so,
And in a way my heart a fondness did grow.


The Brighton to London Poet

© 2006 MCARB