my arms miss you

when the link between us is bare words 
scattered on a page
the back and forth deformed by time

you curl into sleep
as I slip off the covers to start the day
my night still your day

when the connection is scratch and static
odd words break through
I try and decipher mood and sense
from what may be random clues

then it is that my arms miss you

because in the embrace
in the whispered speech of breath
there, are all that words cannot frame

and all the clumsy attempts at comfort and understanding from far away
all the lengthy explanations
all the questions 
are so unnecessary
when you are in my arms 
there is

One clap, two clap, three clap, forty?

By clapping more or less, you can signal to us which stories really stand out.