My Mom would be
the first to tell
you
that I am being
overdramatic.
That 91 kilometres
is only
56.488 miles.
And that the breadth
of his kiss
(and kindness)
should carry
me
from here
to there.
(easily)
But when tonight
I opened
the door into
darkness
yet again,
I wondered how far
I felt
from being alone,
or rather,
how close.
I wanted just to
be held, as
we do.
Tight, tight.
For a bit of reassurance
on a certain midnight
that tomorrow
would, most likely,
be
better.
It’s nothing, I know
it is less than anything
in complaints, merited.
So I will be
quiet
with my wishes.
I won’t tell you
or anyone,
least of all, him
how very
much
I would have liked
that he could
have
somehow been
here
then, as in, now.
(me tied to
him and him
to me,
arms and legs jumbled,
sleeping peacefully.)
*****
A new poem. Missing my sweetheart and Arles. These photos are from a recent visit where I was fixed on seeing what has remained instead of changed. Yes, I am not only dramatic, but a nostalgic girl as well.
With much Love,
Heather
