It was her who missed me the most. Her, who knew me inside and out.
She never forgot the smell of my skin,
the lines on my palms.
Those nights where we were alone together,
draped in messy blankets and soft pillows.
I awoke to her resting on my chest.
Running my fingers through her hair, a continuous motion.
But it was her who missed me the most.
So it was.
Creating our own life together. And we were
something else entirely.
She took pictures on the camera she held like a bible.
I watched her smile.
Held her like a newborn.
Dried her tears.
But it was her, who missed me the most.
She, like you;
never forgot the night where nothing else mattered.
Where true love seemed possible.
And like you,
she cried.
Hard and heavy tears that ruined her makeup.
But she will never forget.
It was her, who missed me the most.