A landscape altered, a canvas bare, Where once a vibrant color flared. Not the ache of a love that’s flown, But a hollow carved in flesh and bone.
The English tongue, a simple plea, “I miss you,” it says, from me to thee. But the French, a truth more deeply scored, “Tu me manques,” a missing chord.
It’s not that I am in despair, It’s that a part of me is air. A phantom limb, a silent hum, The ghost of a familiar drum.
You are the book I cannot find, The missing word within my mind. The star that’s vanished from the night, Leaving a void of endless white.
So do not say that I am blue, Or that I’m lost in thoughts of you. For “tu me manques,” the heart confesses, You are the space my soul possesses.
“Beyond the Blog” Pam Beach
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