Missing Her

Missing her tastes like
raspberry freezer jam
hoarded since 2011 and spread sparingly
on the remaining biscuits,
because when it’s gone
she’s gone.

Missing her feels like
the dense sweetness of too-ripe bananas
smashed under the weight
of the potato masher,
and scraped into the 4×8
loaf pan.

Missing her sounds like
the rushing ocean of tears
that starts in my belly
and ends just behind
my eyes
leaving hollow lapping inside
that nobody notices,
but me.

Missing her smells like
old photographs,
mild cheddar cheese,
and sourdough bread.

Missing her looks like
red curtains blowing gently
in the breeze, framing
the ancient lilac tree
in all it’s early budding glory.


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