Missing Woman

[ChristopherSea]

version 3.0

I can't hear your music while driving my car,
no ballads or Mozart cover the roar.
Fresh pine scents are former memories;
your bears, that dwelt on my dashboard, are gone.

I don’t hear the rhythm of your high heels,
my majorette's march across wooden floors.
There’s no trace of makeup upon my lapels.
I can't find your stray blonde hairs on my suit.

I long for our silly wrestling matches
for dominion of the remote control;
then there’s our bedcovers great tug-of-war,
with you triumphant in a sea of blue sheets.

Your nylon stocking festoons have vanished,
but a mildewed shower curtain remains.
Sweet songs don't sing from harsh sprays within
and the tile floor craves your lingerie’s touch.

I have yearned and prayed, then dreamt that I might
gaze at you shaving your legs one more time.
My mirror’s dim and the silver’s oxidized;
I shall never see you dance there again.

This day each month I buy lavendar mums
to recall you holding them close to your breast.
I hope you smell them when I visit you
and feel the warmth of my hand on your stone.



tru/bil edit version 3.0

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version 2.0

I can't hear your music while driving my car,
no ballads or Mozart, just metal roar.
Fresh alpine scents are former memories;
your bears, that dwelt on my dashboard, are gone.

I don’t hear the rhythm of your high heels,
my majorette's march across hardwood floor.
There’s no trace of makeup on my lapels
and your stray blonde hair's are not on my suit.

I long for our silly wrestling matches
for dominion of the remote control;
then there’s our bedcovers great tug-of-war,
with you triumphant in your sea of sheets.

Your nylon stocking festoons have vanished,
but a mildewed shower curtain remains.
Sweet songs don't sing from the harsh sprays within
and the tile floor craves your lingerie’s touch.

I have yearned and prayed, then dreamt that I might
gaze at you shaving your legs one more time.
My mirror’s dim, the silver’s oxidized;
I shall never see you dance there again.

Today I'll bring you your beloved mums
and I’ve written a new poem to read.
I hope you hear me when I speak to you
and feel the warmth of my hand on your stone.

tru edit version 2.0

This was a challenge from my wife to write something more emotinally charged

oh my, the sexual undertones of that new final stanza!

Thanks my Friend!