I once knew a girl named Missing.
Her voice was solemn
melancholy, like a funeral dirge
or the echoing moans of massive whales
careening languidly through the vast sea.
Missing was quiet
when Missing was feeling particularly strong
her voice became a wailing
a siren’s screech
piercing the day, disturbing the peace.
Missing spent her time
coiled into shadowed corners
trying to escape the brilliant day.
She didn’t like to reveal herself to many.
She simply wrapped her arms around herself
restlessly seeking solace
in her own embrace.
Huh. Been a while since I’ve written. I guess I’ve been distracted by knitting, and by an improving but still chaotic personal llife, and by working 40-hour weeks, usually over 6 days.