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        DAWN BRUCE

 

            Missing Sense

 

 

I taste you

in every sweet thing I eat,

the ripe peach, the honeyed toast.

I smell you

in every fresh aroma,

the tea-roses, freshly baked apple pie.

I hear you

in every delicate tune,

pianissimo notes, sad strings of a violin.

I see you

in every loving gesture,

a hand slipped into another, an intimate glance.

If only I could touch you.