There isn’t anything in the Bible that says I have to miss you, yet, I do. I don’t know why this happens so abrubtly at times when I find my head hanging out the window like some dog in heat trying to feel relief from the wind that I only wish would sweep us away.
There isn’t anything in the sage advice given to lost lovers that says I have to miss you, yet, I do. I don’t know why I left you out of the story that was meant to be built for us, where if I had only turned the page, we would have all seen you in your glory, saving grace that you are. Or is that just how I wish it were written?
There isn’t anything behind the spiritual text that says I have to miss you, yet, I do. When the latches rust over and the doors shut tight, the people paint it over to seal the deal that our paths never really crossed, but in the past where we don’t live. Or at least that is what you used to tell me.
The bible shuts with dust flying and settling into its bones like my heart fluttered to and from the pages of yours that weathered out long ago. The sage advice burns at the stake and withers into dust as its potency evaporates in the air like my last breath for you that escapes my soul for a journey into the great unknown. The spiritual text shuts behind a rusty door, sealing fate in its hands where truth sifts like dust through my fingers which once held your name.