I Look, and I Miss You.

I look at you, the you in my head image of you, and I miss you. I look at the squirrel, on the tree, wriggling its tail, as if dancing to a much better cover version of the Macarena, and I miss you. I look at the night sky, the stars faintly drawn by a poor painter and his expired colour palette, as I vaguely start to recollect the much brighter the much more beautiful shooting stars we had seen that night last summer, and I miss you. I look at the children in the park building snowmen, laughing their hearts out, maybe in a failed attempt to stay warm, and their laugh reminds me of your laugh, and suddenly I wish you were right here beside me, and I miss you. I look at the singer songwriter playing with his guitar, holding it close to his chest, like that woman who he thought slept in his bed last night but didn't, and I remember what you said, what I thought I heard you say, and I miss you. I look at the city, so full of life, so full of colours, darkened by these annoying repetitive sirens, but somehow it's still colourful, and amidst all this orchestrated organised chaos, I miss you. I look at the non existing sun, and I miss you. I look at the alarm clock, and I miss you. I look at the bicycles, the empty bench, the flowers, the morning newspaper headline on the tube back home, and I miss you.

I look. I look, and I miss you.