one squae missing

I saw you chase the moon one
night

 when the snow swirled in a dance around a
streetlamp on a cobblestone street.

I heard the dream
beckon when the wind fell around my footsteps as I made my way home to
Keflavik.

I felt the breath of a candle at 5
PM.

The warmth of kitchen scents enveloped my senses
making me whole once again.

It was always the
time of day when evening fell and people talked in circle
conversations around old wooden tables whilst steam from cooking pots
played with lace curtains;

this was the time that I
missed you most.

Sometimes,

here,
in this place, I cannot stand the lack of candles.

It
is the foreigness, the lack of laughter and car doors slamming in
driveways.

Here,

the only kitchen
scents there are come from imitation french
restaurants.

The names are an insult to the bistros
and restaurants on cobblestone streets that are oceans
away.

I feel like I am
falling,

falling away from my self, from my
art.

I cannot paint
here.

There is no warmth of candlelight
here.

There are only meaningless highways and streams
of endless headlights and traffic with no
respite;

only automobiles filled with ridiculous
people pretending to know europe;

all going to
restaurants that pretend to be french.

I miss the
castles and the chestnut trees that have been growing for centuries in
medieval towns.

I  miss the grounds where my
father stood and gazed in scientific awe at the prism of a
rainbow.

I miss my life.

I miss the
place where I fell in love.

I miss the sound of
footsteps in the
snow.