I miss the ideal that I made of you.
The fault all mine, I know, but if I made
too much of the perfections you displayed,
assuming they could possibly be true,
I didn’t get it altogether wrong.
You were as beautiful as bees, your voice
that thrummed its wingbeat accents through my head,
and promised me the honey that you fed
to someone else (yes, fair enough: your choice)
your voice was one continuous love song.
I miss the smoky walk towards your hive.
I miss you on my skin. I miss your sting.
I miss the buzz of knowing I’m alive
to hear each syllable your voice lets sing.