No more inquisitive brown eyes
to stare into and lose myself.
No more little ears to measure.
No more love songs to sing, because no one is listening.
No more dimpled smiles.
No more of her laughter, grabbing my attention.
No more flippers for feet
with flipper covers reaching to her knees.
No more secret language to make up
and joke about amongst ourselves.
No more soft kisses to have in the morning
waking me up from my slumber.
No more gentle caress of the middle of my back.
No more love to make during the late hours.
No more dreams to have of little ones playing in our backyard.
No more dreams to have of us growing together.
No more recipies to try.
No more spoons to lick.
No more you to teach me things.
No more coozied drunken debates.
No more you to admire naked in the sunlight.
No more you to watch sleep in the moonlight.
No more you to come home to.
No more home to come to.
No more time.
No more love.
COCOYEA 
That is a wonderful description of all the small things make a relationship real and moving, the two people really come alive in it. And it is very sad.
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I love the momentum behind this. And Paul’s right: it’s all too easy to get flowery and whimsical in love poetry. This is real and ‘bare bones’.
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small measures of esotericism make it right.
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this is so sad. sometimes the list of what is missing outshines the list of what ya got in your hot little hand and this poem says just that very eloquently and economically.
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this kills me the most: “No more secret language to make up and joke about amongst ourselves.” no one else will ever share that particular secret language, which is just another thing to mourn, but thank god there will be another and her deeper mystery will manifest in a language we can’t even foresee.
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