Confession time. At my age, living on my own most of the time, I often talk to myself. What's worse, when writing poems I ask a question in one poem and then answer it - or try to anyway. Here's an answer to yesterday's poem.

What’s missing?

What’s missing? At long last I know
It’s hearing you calling us ‘we’
Your body lying next to me
In a shared bed

What’s missing? Well, I now can tell
Our eyes locked and lips hard pressing
Your loving hands, me caressing
My mind, my heart

What’s missing? Do you want to hear?
My head, your chest, rising, falling
Your pulse beating, and mine stalling
Drowning in air

What’s missing? Can you bear the truth?
Your being there, and half asleep
A waking memory I keep
And would rekindle

What’s missing? On Valentine’s day
It’s what we had that I’m missing
Your hand reaching for me, kissing
And your touch, love.  

To see other poems, visit my website: annerainbow.me.uk