The missing

I miss my mornings, the early hours before sunrise, at dawn, and the minutes before dawn. 

I miss my longing, I miss the very missing. 

I miss my people, my world.

I miss my contemplating. 

I miss the hope. 

I miss dreaming, my illusions, the delusions too.

I miss the palms of my father. 

I miss his smile, his tears too. 

I miss my mother's most saddest singing voice.

I miss their faces, and I often imagine how they would be, looking at my Yasmina. 

I miss what it all ought to be. 

I miss me too....