What You Never Had

Sometimes, you miss what you never had -
silence that you could breathe in,
love in a bag around your waist;
you, walking on a bridge 
and the rain seething
at the visible breath of memories
you never made.

Empty, you thank the sun -
sinking, you clutch a wave,
thinking it is frozen 
just like all the things in your head.

Sometimes, you miss what you never had -
words, certain
like the burden
of all the taking in the world.
You miss being thanked
like you miss being warned.
You miss arms; you miss hands,
as you bank on your
infertile being.

All the things in your head -
you think if you’re as futile as a clock
that contains.

Your fingers wear long lines.

And you miss
being written about.