(to R.L., in a moment of missing)

It wasn’t just two weeks ago that you left here.
And drove to some far away place.
I think of you every day, every hour, every minute.
I think of you every breath.

It used to be that breathing was easy
when you were near.
Now, I can’t take in your scent.
Patchouli puts me in a moment of missing you.
I remember the tastes of the meals we prepared,
the rhythm of the music we listened to,
if only in a moment of missing.

You told me you had to go find something.
To make you happy.
I told you I understood.
I didn’t want to be mean. So I said that.
Now, in a moment of missing you,
I want to take it back.
I want to be mean.
You left me, remember?