The Bookshop Sessions #20

I squat on this dock, as the sun calls it a day, burning two fingers to the end.
I see no reflection could amend
the lapping waves below.

It’s missing you, the stone I refuse to release.
For the sake of the view, it drops in. Going with words held tight to a land I’ve never been or seen. Eywallah, it screams from each bubble burst. Not the first or last, simply a chosen castaway with no ode to any. Its strong gut sinks to the words of..

I’m missing         

He wades through the pouch of pebbles collected. None have names but a few. The Conch at the bottom sounds the silent falling of the dying wind. Into him continues to climb the...

Something’s missing

The streetlamps no longer cry.
A river tipped sleeve remains
Tearing you limb from limb.
Again and again. It sheds.
A new carcass for the soil. 
The trees nearby hear the sirens calling from the forest floor. There’s a book lying in the darkness. Perfectly bound with a tight red string. It shimmers beneath the dirt.

Not knowing
The missing you.