It's past four in the morning.
A slow cricket is chirping outside my window
and the air is late spring balmy.
You did love the spring.
I hope you still do
and that your soul is blooming
with the pale pink joi de vivre
Darling, I am realizing
as I lie here in perfect stillness
that I do not miss you.
My empty arms are satisfied
not in emptiness
but at the prospect of new love.
And the space where you once lay
held soft and close to my breast
does not miss your warm breath
but remembers it, with a fondness as soft as your velvet skin.
A fondness one reserves for past love.
the birds have begun to sing.
And I am rising with their chorus
spreading my wings in perfect happiness
flying away from the ruin of an old heart.