Of Old - a poem

I am used to missing you.
It is not a new feeling—
years as friends-apart now surpass
our friends-together years.
I will always love you
and I will always miss you,
almost as if you were dead—
except it’s reciprocal
like two friends

buried in adjacent plots,
together in spirit yet
permanently separated.
I don’t get off the phone
and miss you “anew” but “of old”—
all over again. I am relegated to it.
I am used to missing you.
But not so used to it
that I don’t.

- Ellen H.
[I'm in a phase of going through old poems and reworking them as well as writing more new ones. Time away can bring fresh inspiration!]