It is only when I write, as I am writing now,
I understand I miss those things I do not miss.
Is it the quiet that overtakes my thoughts
though all around me nothing is quiet?
And why do I miss now those things I do not miss
and wonder how they all became things not missed?
There was a time I missed those things I do not miss
and held to the belief I could not live without them.
But I did, and now I do not miss them
except when I write, as I am writing now.
Those things not missed have faces, voices,
and something in the way they touched that lingered
until they were not missed, though I do not know
when those things I miss became those things
not missed.