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'd rehearse.

If you were gone, I'd miss the
days to bring you flowers and
the meaning and the colors
that 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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