Detachment Syndrome

Love destabilises. Loss, even more so. So when I leave the echo of my longing, the grasses go dry. All I want? Your voice to haunt me.

Aches of a living twig. Photo by Mathilde Langevin on Unsplash

Yes.

I know this is corny
to label my feelings as
a diagnosis made within
the disinfected walls of 
a psych ward.

But here’s the truth…
unadulterated with opinions
objective in its making
awash with grief…
I miss you.

How simple these words are…

And yet their echo
sounds through the chambers
of my oft-beating heart
always just hammering
for your touch.

The feelings I’m left
are like an empty space
Imagine a spot
vacated by Mona Lisa
in my Louvre.

It’s untouched by light…

Your light, oh yes
that burned the hardwoods
of my shell-like carapace
and ignited the coal-heart
into a diamond.

So, please, for once
when you’re out there
under the Southern moon
just part your lips and say…
You miss me.