I hung onto the words you said, The promises you made but didn’t understand then, The future we spoke about; One you no longer want to be in.
I miss you when I hop in my car and strap in my seatbelt. I miss you right before I close my eyes and fall asleep. I miss you at 4AM.
“Your sister overdosed baby” is what I heard my father say, my heart shattered, it ached, and my world went grey.
“I miss you even when I’m not horny.”
It is in callous words, disinterested gazes, and kisses empty of desire that I miss you the most.
I can’t unlove you like you’ve unloved me.
On Tuesday mornings, I imagine us, curled between blankets, close enough that both our noses and toes could touch.
I know it’s selfish, but I hope there’s still a part of you that wonders about me. That even though we’re miles and months apart, you find yourself staring at something that reminds you of me, twirling it between your fingers, fighting with your heart to call me.
I miss filling my weekdays with you.
What is the word for missing someone, for knowing there is something missing from you because they are not there, when you have never had them to begin with? Does that word exist?