Perhaps this longing be the phantom pains

of a section of soul long severed.

To look up and be missing

despite the sky and dirty window pains

in need of another cleaning.

Could I only rinse my eyes

and for the first time see clearly

the world,

as it should be.

To set my feet firmly down

and care more for what I have had

than what I am yet to have found.

Still

I cannot but believe

that I was not made for this world

nor it for me.

It was only by chance

that ever we did meet.

How can a life be made from that?

From luck, rather than love

is that really my hand?

And were it to be cut from me

at the wrist,

would it be what I had held

or just the moments without pain

that I miss?