The Missing Ingredient

I have a list, a collection if you will.
It has pictures of a candle-lit bistro on a quiet street in London.
It has scenes of urgent lips too-swiftly meeting.
It has the feel of your hand in mine.
It has all the wasted moments of days bookended by your presence.
It has the scent of lavender and satin.
It has the searing alcohol that stung my soul.
It has the crisp clink of wine glasses.
It has bittersweet memories of when sun met moon.
It has the warm taste of a spice you can't quite place.
I have a list, a collection if you will.
I have times and dates,
People and places,
Scenes and faces.
But I don't have you.