On The Impossibility of Quantifying Certain Feelings

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I miss you most
on Wednesdays
when the sun is getting low
when the sprinkled stars
are twinkling
and it soft begins to snow.
I miss you most
at twilight
when the seconds stutter still
and the sun seeks rest
by sinking west
and hides behind the hill.
I miss you most
at midnight
when the shadows seem too steep,
and the silence sighs
and softly tries
to lure me into sleep.
I miss you most
in dreaming
and in waking
and in breathing
and on Wednesdays
and the weekdays
and the weekends
and the rest.
I miss you most
this moment
and the next one
and the next.