Sensing
A poem about loss
I look for you in the corridor and in the lift but only my haunted face hangs in the space between my eyes and the mirror you once filled.
I listen for you in the street and in the underpass but only the sound of my shoes on the paved path fill the void between my ears and the space you once walked.
I sense for you across the table in the pub but only the smell of beer and my own sweat fills the air between my nose and the seat you once loved.
You are nowhere I can touch. The hunt is already lost.
About the Creator
Wilkie Stewart
Writer of strange little tales living in Glasgow, Scotland. A former IT professional who loves literary fiction, poetry, Eurovision, art-house film, post-crossing, and comics. Walks daily with his camera when he can. @werewegian1 on Twitter
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