Forty-Seven

I miss your soft eyelashes
fluttering like the puttering
down of rain, soothing me
into lullabies of jazz and
dreams – where innocence
is sweeping through your
arms like the gentle winds
calling me to play. I miss
the light echo of my name
on your lips like the calling
of birds chanting out stories
with the passing of the rain,
in sonnets and daydreams;
yet with every storm, I still
miss the rainbow, promising
wishes of your final return.

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