It's not the loss of love
for I have all the love I need;
when you were here you gave me enough
to feed me through your absence;
it's the lack of intimate touch:
a reach for tousled hair, a wayward curl
back in place with an absent-minded tuck;
here your arm linked in mine, and there
a hand resting on my shoulder;
a finger-tip caress - the sense of you
beside me; soft riffled blown-odour
of your minted breath - all no longer;
true - friends often hug me
but that's mere formality,
a ritual I readily
shrug off - they're not you;
this is what I miss most:
those affectionate touches
you didn't even know you were giving -
I suppose reasons for living.
January 2023
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem