“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?
And “I miss you” — is that only appropriate to someone who has left, someone you imagine will come back or at least longs to do so? What about the people who have never fully entered our lives, who have passed by it like a shiny car driving just slowly enough to get a glimpse at the people inside?
i cannot keep my room clean, can’t keep my headphones from tangling and my music from blasting and the pen from bleeding through the page, and the stairs from leading both up and down, and the river from the ocean and the sun from the sky, and i can’t help the fact that i stay up too late every night, and i miss you.