Weird Little Poem

 Weird Little Poem 

Inspired by a prompt from James Crews @ Writing for Refuge "What would you miss if you were no longer here?"

The blue-moth-mug my friend painted.

Its bead-like black-irises. The small twin

shape repeated five times over white on each wing.

The playful shove of my cat, named after an old yappy dog

always on the pen hand, always at the page.

The moment when I lie in my bed 

or that of another. The ability to search out

the first or the last star. 

I'd miss the smell of my candle which I light with 

the best of intentions. Could I miss all the arrogant

things splayed across the floor?

I know I'd miss hot showers that end with freezing seconds. 

First ten. No, fifteen. Fine, thirty. 

I breathe. Jolt myself alive.

I'd miss the bird songs by day, frog songs by night.

Could I miss boyish grins, womanly curves, shared sweat? 

I'd miss napkins with tea stains that flirt with my imagination, 

slutty in their invitation for her to come, to play.

Could I miss the soft smell of my own hair? 

The slick of my own tongue on the back 

of my own teeth? 

Could I miss a gassy stomach, or cramps

or night-sweats? I know...

I'll miss the space that lays languid 

all around and watches for me 

to drop in.