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I miss your presence at my side;
just knowing that you're there;
to reach out and to touch your hand;
or just the sense you're near.
I miss you in your reading chair,
devouring mysteries or space,
or searching through your cooking books,
seeking a different taste.
I miss the hand that finds mine,
as we cross a parking lot;
the scratch you do across my back,
when we've driven far too long.
I miss the smile that seeps through,
when you're happy to see me,
to feel your presence as we hug,
the silence hard to bear.
I miss your touch when we've retired,
our sleeping forms change on cue,
each passing day that you're away,
reminds how I miss you.
Jerry Cutting
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