Cris de Borja

I would rather miss you
so much that I suddenly can’t
bear even the sound of my own voice
than to have you gone and
have it not change anything.
I don’t want to be carefree,
and I will feel this loss as a hollow,
the place in my heart where you
are, still, and will stay.
I want to be less because you
are beyond the reach of my
text messages
you can’t tell me you’re on the way
or suggest we get together Saturday
next.
It seems only right that
my whole being feels the stars
shedding light, the skies shifted,
and every falling petal misaligned
in the winds of April. Don’t
tell me that the beetles under the leaves
can’t feel my sorrow, that the
songs of the birds don’t include
a note for you.
I won’t believe it. I don’t want to. This is mine
to feel;
I know you would understand.