I think of yearning as a frayed piece of my blanket 

Draped over my leg as I reach for its other end to wipe my tears.

I think of it as a phantom stroke,

not knowing what you needed

until the precise moment it descends upon you.

I think of it as my grandmother’s kitchen, 

warm but lonely with the endless potential of filling hearts 

but meaningless in the absence of life.

I think of it as a distant possibility, 

preparation never being enough, 

abandoning it altogether.

I think of it as the obliviousness of a young girl

unknown to love and how it expands her heart.

Naive and hopeful that this makes her stronger.

I think of it as you, in all your raw glory.

Your nooks and corners and how I’ll forget them one by one 

as the days go by.

Artwork: Pensive Lady in Pink (1952), Edward Hopper