Of Missing Pieces

There were those memories, of course
what she knew or vaguely recalled.
What it meant to be that close
to someone else,
to have had him in her life.
But there were always those things
which drove lovers apart
and ended whatever dream.

Her freedom became sacrosanct
instead, and it was that which
defined her passing daze.
Of that she could be sure,
answering to no one else.
But in the absence,
in the missing,
none of what had formerly
informed her early joy,
her unbounded best.

It was simple.
She had been truly close once,
had really been there,
felt that much glory
like never before or again.
To have loved and been that loved.
O, to have been that sure
once, so very long ago.

This entry was posted in Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply