“It’s weird to feel like you miss someone you’re not even sure you know.”
― David Foster Wallace
I picture you in the blush of morning
tucking your hands round a warm mug,
the tea’s steam curving in a smoky dance.
You sip sacredly… enraptured by stillness.
Or at least, I like to imagine that.
Truth is, you’re hard to pin down. You oscillate
in and out and out and in of my sphere
of existence; a sound I’m not sure I heard,
a scent carried off before I name it.
You’re a delicate, intricate ghost,
a stained-glass window,
a sand mandala.
Or at least, to me you are.
Sadness slides down my veins…
It makes my arms collapse
and sigh and ache—
to hold you