As spring approaches,

The air gets warm,

The birds chirp louder,

And the first bloom appears.

It feels so familiar—

The anticipation of spring—

But the first bloom

Misses your gaze.

She misses the way you

Smile.

She misses the way you

Laugh.

She misses the way I

Tell you

To smell her…

Forgetting you’ve told me you can’t.

The birds chirp

Without audience,

And the breeze goes

Stagnant. Still.

The first bloom

Whispers, “I miss you.”

And I whisper,

“Me too.”