The search is real for a love
As warm and as big as
The sheets on a bed
And for some it's just as dirty.
Is it love?
It's love if you want it to be.
If you need it to be,
If you wish it could be.
If you see, it may be
Something's missing.

I read your bio.
A seductive list of
Descriptive words hanging
Out there
In cyberspace like
Little puffs of smoke.
I am a bee in a box,
The queen,
Soothed by the
Half-truths you tell.
My stinger-sharp instincts
Tell me something
Is missing.

Your soft, sensual side
Is its own concomitant.
You are equally hard, indifferent.
You nurture growth
With those hands
And turn cold stone into backdrops
For nature’s handy work.
Yet you’ve never been married?
No children?

You create pedestals
On which all of that and those
Can sit and be admired
By you and yours.
But you won’t share
The dark opposite of that
King of the jungle quality.
Missing is your desire,
Unwillingness or inability
To commit.
Does the pedestal chip,
And crack?
Does it crumble from the weight of
Feeling that your efforts,
Creative works born of your heart
And that brilliant mind,
Go unnoticed?
Do you deliberately destroy
That cold throne
Because she never realizes
Your need to be held
And to hold is so urgent,
As deep as the ocean in which I live
And as strong as the waves of truth I speak,
That you will grow fields
Of succulents and sweets
In exchange for a lover’s kiss?
That missing kiss.

Your lion’s pride won’t let you
Write the words
I have professed here
From your heart.
Oh no, what I know of you will not be
Cataloged on your
Public profile.
Instead you will continue
To hope that some pale beauty,
Closer to your shores,
Will be as clever as I
And, somehow, intuitively discover
Your hidden yearnings.
You’ve had her, old friend.
It is my soul that recognizes yours.
I see and feel you, my love.

I am what is missing.