Pining

by Alison Turtlott

Missing you comes and goes
like a Maine summer. Some days
the ache of your absence is hot
vexing like a blistered sunburn. Other days,
it hides in the shade of the Sourwood
that blooms in the heat of late July,
unassuming in its wait.

The ache sometimes strikes me
like a balmy breeze, washing over
like the warmth of your love, which left
just as fast as it came. The worst days
are when it hangs humid in the air,
soaking each pore in sorrow ‘til
I am dripping in melancholia.