If I told him how much
I actually truly miss him he
wouldn't believe me.
I could message him and pour my
heart out all over his arms,
and he wouldn't believe me.
If I told him I miss the smell of
his room,
watching his meticulous, yet ***** hands work.
All of the answers and the knowledge
that he contained in that absolutely
beautiful misunderstood brain.
He wouldn't believe me,
because he believes that I discarded him
like a cigarette **** out of my window.
Hell, he may not believe me,
even if I mailed every poem I've ever
written about him to his address.
It would be a book by now.
He doesn't know how much I miss
the friend that cared for me when nobody else did.

I have never missed anybody for this amount of time.
But he was never just anybody to me,
he became everything.

I crave the broken contact lenses; the accidental hip bone to granite corner counter top collisions.
I breathe ****** hang nails, and surprise scalding water.
I drink up the catches in my side, and deep paper cuts.
The splinters in my heels and soap in my eyes are kin to milk and honey to the weak and weary.
I live for the arm hair caught in my bracelet, and blinding headaches that plague me nightly-
Because for a single second in the inexplicable, unexpected pain of that beautiful fleeting moment,
I forget-- for one unadulterated second- the crushing weight of your weightlessness; your absence.