Absentia

A somber night, neither despite nor because of the clenching swamp as aptly describing this air as it does any marshy earth.

Just is. 

A night of missing things. Some familiar squawk from above. The brawn of a red memory, all bold and leaden, dense. 

A night fading into itself, plush and deferring to a sole stream of life that began, I swear, in circles and never. 

All to say, or mean, I miss you.