The wind used to carry your whispers to me
gently,
lifting them from your distanced lips,
carrying them to my distanced ears.
The wind loved our delicate romance
and would do any favor
simply to hear
your next beautiful dance of words,
or to watch me smile,
heart melting,
at your whispered adoration.

But now it is restless, itchy summer
and though the wind rarely blows past
my ears,
I know your words drift slowly to me,
floating,
lingering,
whispering:
I miss you, I miss you, I miss you.