It’s to tumble
like an asteroid across the cosmos,
gravitating toward your body,
but grazing past your skin,
against my will.
It’s to orbit,
to be locked in a dance of near and then far;
to be pulled so effortlessly in and,
by the same force,
flung back out.
It’s to wait,
and watch,
and wane,
because the distance between us does get smaller;
just never enough.
It’s to avoid
catastrophe, collision. Which is
to say missing can be choice or circumstance. Which is
to say missing doesn’t mean lost. Which is
to say sometimes
I look for you.
It’s to analogize
(fumble awkwardly):
to say what I mean, but not really;
to be who I mean, but not truly,
hoping
you understand.
Because to miss you
is to speak into a vacuum,
to mouth the words while choking
on the indomitable space
between us,
hoping
that if you also
really,
truly
miss me,
I understand.