—I’M PRETTY SURE IT WAS SPECTACULAR.  YEAH, I’M PRETTY SURE.

Miss You More

I miss you, one moon at a time, full or barren, when I'm stargazing or in the middle of a red-hot sex dream.

I miss you in thirty-seven languages, though I only know one and a half.

I miss you in Arabic posters painted on the chests of commuter buses running at rush hour.

I miss you in the shoals of ice cold coffee, in the ruddy suspect grounds.

I miss you in Mauritius where there’s plenty of sheer, azure air.

I miss that ace of diamonds lying by your pelvis like a grenade stem.  I miss that whole constellation of code.

I miss you in SoHo and Seattle.  I miss you in Powell’s Books.

I miss you two times a lady, two times a billion, two times a lifetime, which equals a lot.

I miss you in Cubism, Impressionism, and hedonism.  I miss my face buried in your perfect moon ass.

I miss you in sonics that skip and reverb, that ping off the wall like misdirected wasps.

I miss you telling me nothing about the something you’re in.

I miss your forefinger in my mouth, or anything of you in my mouth.

I miss you in a snowstorm that fractures my back and kills all the noises in my head.

I miss you insane, in line, in a pickle, in instances where the meaning is unclear and unruly.

I miss you in Cabernet, cookies n’ cream, a court-side game we’ve yet to see.

Yes, it’s true.

I miss you in morning, in mourning, in evenings when the seconds slog and the bleak borders sag.

I miss you tying my shoes, tying a tie four-in-hand, or fingering crusts of sleep from the corner of my eyes.

I miss you standing in a courtroom with legs full of rock salt, head leaking exhaust.

I miss you in between every in between.

I miss you.

I miss you right now.

I missed you before.

But now, I miss you even more.