I think I’ve mastered the art of missing you, somewhere in between
the 3am reruns of what I like to think we we were and
the countless mornings and afternoons recalling every line on your face,
the way your lips felt against mine that very first time,
the way your arms felt wrapped around me,
the way your eyes lit up when you smiled at me,
the way your hand felt against mine in your car as we drove to unknown destinations.
I like to think I know how to miss you right, but
it still shatters me to think of you, still hurts when I see her with you,
you look happier and in the times when I’m missing you, I find myself wondering why it couldn’t be me.
It’s not me you’re saying I love you to, it’s not me you’re falling asleep next to, waking up next to, living next to.
It’s not me you’re loving and I can’t help but wonder why I couldn’t be enough.
I don’t think I’m good at missing you at all.