Missing Woman

[Leanne]

Just for meter, Chris

version 3.1

I can't hear your music while I drive my car,
no Bach or ballads, only metal drone.
Fresh pine scents are memories of yesterday;
your bears, that dwelt upon my dash, are gone.

I don’t hear the rhythmic click of your high heels,
a majorette's march over wooden floors.
There’s no trace of makeup on my clean lapels;
No stray blonde hair is hidden on my suit.

I remember every silly wrestling match
for absolute control of the remote;
then there was the great bedcovers tug-of-war,
with you triumphant in a sea of sheets.

Your nylon stocking garlands have all vanished;
a mildewed shower curtain still remains.
Your sweet songs no longer come through steamy sprays
and floor tiles long to touch your lingerie.

I have yearned, then prayed, and now dream I might
just watch you shave your legs one final time.
Now my mirror’s dim, its silver's oxidized;
I'll never see you dance in there again.

On this day each month I buy lavendar mums
remembering them clasped against your breast
Do you smell them, darling, when I visit you
and feel my hand bleed warmth into your stone?