It’s not as simple as missing someone,
Because I always think the word implies
The drooping whiskers of a dejected puppy
Who can do nothing but wait
For his Master’s return.
I need a new word;
Because as much as I lack him
I need to be less full.
I need to be separate from the
Joy he brings to my heart
And the hot mess between my legs –
This man makes a hot mess of me
And scrambles my vision
Making egg yolk of my principles
While he’s making me breakfast.
For as much as we talk about art
With a capital A,
None of it seems to matter
When he puts his capital D in my matter,
Reducing the artist to an animal,
And an animal to a woman
When he plays with my hair
That falls across his cheekbones.
But in this lacking I meet again
My first love of words
And whip everything he inspires
Into the shape of sentences to fill in
The void on his side of the bed
That now seems like a hole
I could fall into.
So I fall instead into the angular embrace
Of the first love that
Saved me from being a hot mess of a human –
And putting words to everything else
Provides just enough distraction
From missing that which sends me reeling now
Into the warm arms of humanity,
Whose homogeny I thought to be oh so far beneath me
When making sense of the madness
Was the only madness I knew.