If You’re Reading This, I Miss You

If you’re reading this, I miss you.

I miss the way you made love seem safe, without fear, something I could drown myself in and still have an unlimited supply of air. Something that I never had to question nor convince; something that seemed like it existed for the sole purpose of my ease.

I miss your company, the way I could laugh around you without doubting your intentions and all of the things you could possibly do to me—the way my anxiety could rest around you because there was never any potential threat.

I miss the way you’d love me, the way you held me as if you knew the true value of what touched your hands each night—the way you knew grace and adoration could only be given by fingertips that knew how to be gentle.

I miss your thoughts and the way you’d donate them so abundantly to all of the things that made us good, all of the things that made us better and built us stronger. I miss the way joy wasn’t foreign to your mind.

I miss you in the way our mouths insisted on finding each other before they found the dinner plate against our will each and every time. I miss you in the sun, the stars, and every tapestry that knows the color yellow.

I miss the way you took time to know yourself, to grow yourself. I miss reading books with you and studying the words so diligently merely because we wanted to find more profound ways to articulate how we felt about each other.

I miss feeling like out of all of the places on a map, I am your favorite place to go; I am the place you come home to no matter how far you travel.

I miss you in every cup of tea, in every bottle of red wine. I miss you in the way my succulent continues to grow despite not having been touched in months.

Missing you looks like all of the craters on the moon, completely inescapable and something that will last more than a lifetime.

I miss you in the way I’ll never know these parts of you again, and I miss you in the way that that’s okay. And honestly, I hope one day you’ll miss me like that too.