# Missing-1 I am searching for the missing thread in the tapestry of my days, that one colour that slipped away between the loom and the light. Perhaps it fell where the seasons turn their backs, or got caught in the teeth of a clock that stopped keeping time. I have retraced my steps through rooms that grew smaller, through words that lost their meaning like water through cupped hands. The missing thing has no name— only the shape of its absence, only the cold place it left in the geography of my chest. I call to it sometimes, in the voice I use for lost children, but it does not answer back. It has learned the language of silence.

I miss your scent, your taste, every tremor of you.
I miss your voice, your arm wound tight around me.
I miss your breath, warm and soothing, the heat of your skin.
I miss knowing you are here beside me.

I miss the warm amber of your eyes.
I miss watching them search for me.
I miss the light that speaks your love.
I miss answering with my own eyes what yours confess.
I miss the certainty that you love me.

I miss every word, every gesture you make.
I miss your kiss, your embrace, your hand holding mine.
I miss your presence, your company, the gift of your smile.
I miss every brush of your fingers across my skin.
I miss how my own lips answer yours.

I miss each day, each hour, each moment with you.
I miss the thought of what it is to be held by you.
I miss the knowing that I love you beyond words.
I miss the hours that are ours alone,
and I know they stretch into forever.