3 June 2017
The schoolboy on the train wore your socks,
Scrunched at scuffed shoes like you,
I raised my eyes,
It wasn’t you.
The youth strolled dystopian bookstores,
Searched for fine words like you,
I looked across,
It wasn’t you.
The men joked in the cafe corner,
Sounded not at all like you,
No laugh ever,
Will sound like you.
I see you in the Mistover moon,
I feel you in the fiery sunset,
I smell you in the eucalypt damp,
I hear you in my inner soul,
But I want to touch you.
