White Lunar

The more I see of you the more I miss

the hand I cannot hold, the more I see

that we shall never lean in for a kiss;

the more I see how much you’re missing me.

I am that lesser bird

who paints in blots and clots,

who paints the blood-soaked moon

upon your door.

You break into my poetry again

decode a line of sanguine semaphore.

“The more I see of you the more I miss”

then briefly, softly, sadly speak my name.