The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
Dear Sir or Madam,
I would like to place an advertisement in your Classifieds Page, under “Missing,” I suppose in the “Personals” section. Though it is not really, personal I mean. I cannot be the only person missing the following:
MISSING
since 2020:
Faces.
Seeing faces,
full faces,
with noses, freckles, dimples,
lips.
Reading lips,
catching smiles, twitches.
Moustaches.
Lipstick on the rims of champagne glasses,
not on masks.
Not wearing masks,
not having reason to,
having a million reasons, though, to wear that lipstick,
cherry berry, by the way.
Cherry Berry Bubblegum.
Blowing bubbles,
poking a bubble,
poking a finger in someone’s yawn,
spotting parsley in someone’s teeth,
spotting someone at Arrivals.
I miss Arrivals,
having a reason to run toward somebody.
MISSING
Hugs.
Chest on chest, pressing hard,
squeezing out every last atom of air and separation.
The synchronous thump of heart on heart through layers of sweaters, time, and social distance.
MISSING
Kisses on cheeks.
Cheeks,
peach-powdered, strawberried,
against a gentle stubble, smelling, at dusk, still,
faintly of aftershave, something mint and lemon.
MISSING
Scent.
Perfume, memorized, recognized,
on collars, pillows, scarves, in the nook of a neck,
remembered, like a sudden blaze, nose nuzzled in someone’s hair.
MISSING
Warmth.
All the body heat lost in isolation,
since 2020.
All the unused caresses.
All the unused spaces:
Cinemas, bars, museums, theaters, dance floors, music halls, Viennese hotel rooms and cafés. All the unleafed newspapers in waiting rooms.
All the unused states of being:
Shaking hands,
brushing fingers,
brushing shoulders, lives in a bustling metro station.
Going,
somewhere. Really.
On a date,
to the movies,
to the airport,
hopping on a plane to Paris. Maybe.
MISSING
Air. Planes. Paris. And what those words mean.
Feeling, everything.
Feeling seen. Without a screen.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
LOST
since 2020,
One of my toddler’s shoes,
just one.
A set of keys.
Two pieces of a puzzle of waterlilies.
Loved ones, too many to count,
and too much more to fit in an advertisement on your Classifieds Page.