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The Missing

The Missing

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I am missing from you, or you are missing from me. I could be missing from me and that is why I miss you. The blank space. Left from the iris. You always noticed when I was gone. 

I bear an unnatural dislike of light and the lark. It holds a cruelty in the way it slinks past casement and over your shoulder, rousing you from bed toward the cock that crows. 

Without mercy it floods past curtains highlighting every space of the room that you are missing from. 

For my part I wait in the corner and the shadow lifting blue and grays to my mouth and nose searching for your scent, your taste. Eyes watchful for the first sign of darkening, ears ready for the sound of your steps on the stair. Heart paused. Breath quick. I wait for the dark. 

Photo and story Monica Michelle

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