My almost-ran

The regular red
A punch in the gut
And the dread
A swollen ache where you should be
Twelve failings
A thirteenth almost-ran
And another twelve phases of loss
Wax and wane
A missing
Of something I never had
Of someone I never knew
But for your smell
Your sound
Your face
Known always
Waiting
Our love on hold
Always held for you

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