you are missing on my cold feet
on the little fingers of my hands
on my lashes
(love antennas pointing at you)
of yesterday
on my morning
in the morning
at night under a warm blanket
at night under the open sky
of sleeping butterflies in my stomach
of my french fries
on my guitar that hasn't seen you
of the rains in May
of my often evaporating courage
of my books that feel like they are gone
of my poems stuck in my throat
on the way from you to us
and on the way from us to you
of the waiters in our restaurant
of the wine we haven't drunk in so long
of Jimi, the Beatles and Zeppelin in my headphones
of several cities

in four words:

you are missing
of a woman

Iliana Genova