I do not have to create anything
when I look at you, for I have seen you
many times before you came into view.
I heard you in every conversation
I never got to have with anyone,
in each awkward silence after a pun,
in every new soft pop song I heard played
on the radio that compared something
or someone to the sun, or joy, or spring.
I saw you peering in every window
as if you could afford to buy a dress
then do the hour trek back to your address,
in every autumnal walk through the park
where I saw not one person stop to catch
a plush, pirouetting piece of tree's thatch.
I felt you in every baby that stopped
crying when it noticed a stranger wave
at it, with a broad grin and teeth unlaved,
and every couple shout at each other
while walking down a busy street as if
no one could see their stupid lover's tiff.
I touched you in the spine of every book
that I curled firmly around my fingers
while I watched as the world moved and lingered,
in every piece of warm bread I lathered
with the butter I could lay my hands on
just to watch it melt until it was gone.
I do not have to create anything
when I look at you because you are just
conspicuous in your absence – august.
