The things I miss
are temporary, I suppose--
worn tennis shoes, seventh grade,
late night chats on social networks,
a glorious afternoon without time restraints,
the rain, the snow, the autumn leaves,
talking verbally to the face or the phone,
the slow release of lying back
on dark, hard pavement in the middle of the street
at night with two friends--and that makes you friends.
But now I miss you with all of your secrets
that you share and I share and we share as one,
your little details and idiosyncrasies,
the weight of your head against my shoulder,
the length and texture of your hair that needs cut,
the feel of your palm and road map of lines
that slide against mine as we tangle our fingers,
the clean scent that follows you after a morning shower,
a welcoming smile, an embrace as a greeting,
a kiss on the forehead that lingers afterwards,
and understanding that passes like language through eyes.
This too, I know, is only temporary--
you are away at the moment, but for only a moment.
Tomorrow or after, you will return home
and this day will be wiped from my memory,
and I will not dwell on what is temporary.