Yearning

It’s not sadness. It’s a sense of longing.
It’s a calling. A soft blue aching.

A sigh of restlessness.
Pang of loneliness.

Recall to memory.
A smile a smell.

Listening at the edge
The hem of the universe

Fingers plucking flowers
A finger trickling down

Pages rustle for the wind
Cheeks brushed and caressed

Like flowers to the wind
Dry leaves down a stream

We lay next to each other
A place where we never met