YOU I MISS.

A FATHER CONVERSES WITH HIS DEAD SON.

Even on
the brightest morning,
when the best birds sing,
and the sun is out
bright and strong,
and my mind
is planning what to do,
I miss you.

Even at the mid of day
when I am sorting lunch
and getting some writing
on the way,
trying to move on
from the blue,
I miss you.

Even when I laugh
at some TV show,
or cry at some hospital
tales old or new,
I miss you.

And at evening time
When sun has set
and moon is out
and glowing
and the sky
is neither black
nor blue,
I miss you.

I miss you
for being you,
not some abstract self,
not just someone
I used to know,
but you, my son,
you, and with palm
blown kiss,
I say:
It is you I miss.