What did not happen

The kiss I did not give you waits impatiently on my lips

and there on my arm

the steel outline of your hand 

reaches out the hundreds of miles between us and holds me fast.

All the words we spoke circle my pillow

as I lie restless in my bed at night 

Longing dripping off my body like a fevered sweat.

Waking

I shuffle the papers on my desk

and hold them up to the light

only to find your name is on them all like a watermark.

No one ever played this game and won

Miss you Dad

I need to go down to the river again

And walk out beyond the shallow waters

To where the sand becomes rock,

Then drops out from under my feet with an intake of breath.

The cold green water 

Will wash over my head

And I will lie back gratefully in the embrace of the familiar.

How many generations of fish have lived and died while I was absent?

Their kin have no remembrance, but will still nibble kisses along my arms and legs.

The ancient sun will laugh, and warm my back until I roll to face him. 

The river does not care, nor the fish, nor the sun.

Perhaps that is where my father waits for me.