Missing

Sometimes she'd miss, although she's not supposed
To miss how he would come so close to hold her;
And, in his absence, she will take the blows
That fate throws at her: let it kiss her shoulder;
And, then, her mind until she'll think and feel
In places that would heat his appetites;
She trails her ideas downwards; let them steal
To parts that will epitomise delights;
When, in his absence, she's so seldom teased,
By whispers fitting neatly to complete
The puzzle that in solitude's not eased
Through hopes or actions, though she will not weep
To mourn his loss; and, yet, where is the bliss?
Or is she not supposed - should she just miss?