For Her, Nine Months After

Sometimes, I miss you.
Only sometimes.
Other times, a drench foils
my thirst, and I find
that I can’t image you.
Sometimes a bleak
threats my arteries,
and I still can’t image you.
I never knew your hands
or arms or hips or thighs
or cryptic spaces.
I never knew your tongue,
never knew your lips,
and only occasionally met
your eyes in an awkward glance.
I never did flutter greenly
with you upon sheets
and read you poetry
and graft your pulse with mine.
You never really allowed me time,
but that’s something
that by now I’m used to.
Perhaps potentiality
surpasses reality.
All I know is that
sometimes I miss you.
-r. miller

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