Unexpected, strange things
make me miss you quite suddenly
and with profound grief
in the regions of my stomach
and intestines.

They come when I am unprepared,
ill equipped and not ready to brace.

They come as a map,
the rounded cape of Good Hope
recalling boiling blubber
and you in black rain boots

They come as a smoke stack
solitary, and the color of pizza crust
against an amber, fading sky
reminding me of a chicken factory
and long walks to a water fall
in the Shenandoah

They come as the sound of leaves
dying and crumbling underfoot,
and the smell of cold air
infiltrating the once warm night,
portents of the season
you sold pumpkins, and came to me
smelling of hay and caramel and manure

They come as a line in a poem,
about silent snow
falling like God,
that reminds me of the divine imbalance
of your asymmetrical breasts

They come even as the night time car lights
streaming through my window,
dancing on my walls
faded and indistinct,
Like ancient cave drawings,
or the different tones of your skin
after a long, midday picnic;
your soft belly muddied and tan,
your pelvic bone clean and wan.

These strange things strike me
like a rip current beneath the ocean surface,
gripping my being with uncertainty and dread.
I fear my breath might fail me,
or that the sinking longing,
pressing down on my heart and lungs,
will no longer dissipate

But then I take a breath,
a step towards my car.
I write a line, then a page,
and avoid a descent into you.