Missing

Missing is a funny thing.

First you miss big things. 
Things that consume your mind completely. 
Feelings that are larger than life. 
and fuller than sighs. 
like love and the space of wanting more
of what filled you up from inside.

next, you miss subtleties. 
Small things. 
Like the shadow of birds flying across 
the sky.

A cup of chai shared before inevitable goodbyes.

And then,
there are those inner missings
like thorns poking out from the inside

Personal things.
Scent on pillows.
Shared silences. 
Presences that overlap and intertwine.
The company of someone who crossed your path. 
maybe just for a little while.

Feelings always manage to sabotage everything, like houseflies.

They never really speak, do they? 
Their presences are enough.
Silences always say so much, 
but mean nothing. 

Even if they do mean something
I tell them not to.

meaning leads to wanting 
wanting leads to waiting
and waiting alone 
leads you nowhere.

let's not wait or want, or want to wait,
what has passed is gone
there's no use adding halos to things that don't shine.

But missing is a funny thing
It always crosses that line.