Longing

You wouldn’t know longing if…

The last tree,

In the last forest.

In the last continent.

Dropped all its leaves

And stretched broken branches

Towards an empty sky.

You wouldn’t know longing if…

The memory of her embrace,

Slipped into your yesteryear.

And you stood,

Alone.

Cold.

Untouched.

Though your arms,

Your hands.

Your fingers.

Ached for the shape of her.

© Jane Thomas