I miss your laughter, fun, and gentleness. I miss the things I used to do for you. I miss the time, now filled with emptiness, When each day was a stage for something new. I miss your love, though mine for you remains, A passion with no outlet to the sea, A teardrop in a desert, that contains What's left of my maternal ecstasy. I miss your presence, like a silent chord That anchored even solitude in grace. I miss, for my love's labor, the reward Of seeing some small pleasure in your face. All these I miss, and yet they are all here Within my heart, far more than I can bear.