22 November 2015

If you were gone...

One morning my wife left this, a gift from her mother, next to her pillow.
If you were gone,
I'd miss your smile,
your giggle, and your laugh;
the outline of your forehead,
nose, the angle of your chin.

If you were gone,
I'd miss your warmth,
your touch, your eyes,
your tears, your outstretched arms,
kisses, hugs,
your opinions of my clothes.

If you were gone,
I'd miss our shared
sunrises on the couch:
the cat, your coffee,
and the smell of autumn
through the screen.

If you were gone,
I'd miss the way
you want to be surprised,
the way you plan adventures
the expressions in your eyes.

If you were gone,
I'd miss the concert
tickets in your purse,
the Disney films and Broadway,
and the memories we rehearse.

If you were gone,
I'd miss the days
to bring you flowers and
the meaning and the colors
your living brings to mine.

If you were gone,
I'd miss your giving
and your gentleness,
the way you wrap up boxes,
gifts for other broken hearts.

If you were gone,
I'd want you to know
that you are never
anything but beautiful
to me.

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