There is an absence in my belly
Where you do not grow.
My arms throb with your not-weight.
I cannot smell your fresh-milk scent.
My ears ache for want of your cries.
My aging eyes, probing crowds for you,
Glimpse only transitory echoes of your smile
In the faces of children who belong to other women.
Still, I wait.
This was written some time ago, but felt a little too raw to post for a while. Things have changed in recent months, and it finally feels ok to put out into the world. I’m not waiting anymore. Or, more precisely, will be waiting for just four more months.