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.