When I say

When I say I miss you, it will not be
for the whisper of petals too thin and tremulous
to stay silent about beauty. It will not be
for the trees that hold their arms out
for love, and try to bridge their distance
to the sky. It will not be
for the recurrence of wind and water
or the moaning of the birds
saying they have seen it all.

When I say I miss you,
it is for the silence of the stones and the shadows.
It is for the sediment of age,
the gathering of rain on windowpanes
and the absence of dust on the things
you smiled at.
It is for the howls and the sounds of struggle
that echo across the gap
from pen to page.

It is for the moments when you vanish
from the gaps within the crowd,
for the old habit of thinking you will
reappear, when you are already
receding with distance and in time:
for the last wave,
the last smile, before you
drop from sight.