Recourse

I miss you like the summer would miss sun;
The wind, the air; the finger miss the hand;
The river, miss the course through which 'twill run;
The dune its self-component heaps of sand;
I miss you like horizons and sunrise
Would miss each other if the world stopped turning,
Or like a Happy Meal would miss its fries
Or printers' presses would miss proper kerning.
I could not miss you more except if you
Were really gone, and not just out of sight;
Then all the world would change its shade of blue
To black exceeding the Cimmerian night.
As long as that is false, I mope away
But in a cobalt blue despite the day.