I could have missed you like the sun
misses the silent silver moon,
painting a sky wide canvas with
the purples and reds of longing,
but bold brush strokes aren’t my style.

I miss you in camera shy
street corners and dark empty rooms
in afternoon curtain drawn shade,
in between black raw verses of
poetry that cascade like hot
tears under the running shower.

I miss you in the asterisks
of advertisements, next to the
conditions applied in pearl white,
and at the jeweler’s where I
exchange my silence for gold
or something which glitters at least.

In the periods I take a
second to turn into commas,
through hilly trails and sandy waves
of pictures I have not clicked yet
in blank cubes of thought, I miss you.