"

I miss you like one can only
miss ideas, feelings, impressions
of things as blurry and perfect as the
bluegreenpurple smudges of water lilies,
things more felt than seen

I missed you, then, too,
in the Musée’s bright white quiet. I didn’t
know the lilies would be right there,
without warning, the only
color in a room exactly their size

Their presence struck me in the chest, just like
missing you always does. Then I
remembered, and wavered, and fell

Paris, see, reminds me of things that
could have been

"

From a poem in progress, tentatively titled “Twenty Years On”