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.”