Okay, I lied.
I miss you.
I miss laughing far too loud,
the kind of laughter that made everything else
feel impossibly far away.
I miss sending you songs
and wondering if you caught the meaning
hidden between the lyrics,
if you heard what I was too afraid to say.
I miss those nightly FaceTimes—
the hours I used to look forward to,
the sound of your voice becoming
the last thing I wanted before sleep.
And I hate that I miss it.
Because somewhere between
missing your voice
and missing your laugh,
my mind remembers everything else, too.
Your lips—
yes, those ones.
The softness of your skin beneath my hands,
the way you’d shiver at the right touch,
the way one kiss
could make me forget
every reason I should’ve known better.
I miss the way you looked at me
when you were happy,
your eyes catching the light
like you’d swallowed a little piece of the sun.
I miss your hand reaching for mine,
like being beside me
wasn’t quite close enough.
Like you needed the reassurance
that I was still there.
The laughter.
The songs.
The late nights.
Your hands.
Your lips.
The little moments
I thought would belong to us forever.
I wish I could say
I don’t miss you.
I wish I could make my heart
as stubborn as my pride.
But some nights,
I still catch myself reaching
for a phone that won’t ring,
for a voice that isn’t there,
for a version of us
that doesn’t exist anymore.