It hung there
Invisible but palpable:
The bit missing.
The absence of a warm touch,
A glance, a thought spun out
And captured in our hands.
My thought. Your thought.
An imperceptible similarity
That knitted and knotted us together.
Now the thread hangs and swings
Empty, weightless and cold in the sea breeze.
The absence of your presence is like
Peter Pan's cut off shadow against the cliff
But I need it sown back on
Like I need a hole in the head.
He's a closed book.
A hard back cover of control
Hides his story
Until a grin flashes across his face
And I hear the pages rustle.
A deep salty kiss lets me taste
The text with my tongue.
In the sweet sweat of bed sheets
I gently prise open the cover and
Start to unstick the pages
He lies wide open for me to read.
But it's a short story:
I hear the slap of the book closing
Before I reach the end.
Sarah Flint lives in the West Country of the UK and for several years has written about diverse interests including gardening, cooking and climbing. At present she likes to write poetry. She enjoys playing with words and tries to put them in an interesting order. Her poetry has been published by The Pygmy Giant, Message in a Bottle, and she has been runner-up in the Mountaineering Council of Scotland poetry competition.