it's the worst it's ever been during night drives with the windows open. times like these make my thoughts run like blood. the air smells like blown out candles, different than a fire in your backyard. it smells sweeter, or maybe it's just the hot blue wax and smoke, blending with nostalgia.

all over, the wind feels like water, soft and gentle on my skin and in my hair, tangible even. i try to cup it in my palms, let it fill my lungs like a fog. on summer nights like this one, i swear it's like your warm skin on mine. almost like satin or maybe even your kisses. (well, that one kiss.) i wish i got to kiss you as often as i feel the air like this.

i get an ache and pull in my stomach.
the definition of "to miss" is to notice the loss or absence of/ feel regret or sadness at no longer being able to enjoy the presence of.
i never see you anymore. i really miss you. i've worn this highway thin driving back and forth just to get this feeling. it's like you're here with me. with your hand in mine, on every summer night, with the same fog in your lungs.

my tires are rid of any traction, but the asphalt faded long before i, with empty potholes where i leave pieces of myself, and places where some cracks run like trenches. the endless pavement looms on, but it can never give me a feeling that will cure missing you, no matter how hard i try to believe it, or how far i travel. this road is worn to dust, and maybe that's the fog that's filling my lungs. the boy who broke the highway.

I've noticed. What I used to know as butterflies in my gut are now crashing waves of nauseousness. When our eyes meet I rarely can ignore the jolt in my spine, and as colour rushes to my face, it drains just as fast the moment I duck my head. Faster than than water rushes from a broken dam, or blood from a slit throat.

I feel words arise on the back of my tongue, and I would speak them if it wasn't such an overwhelming sensation that I'm kneeling on the bathroom floor, hands grasping white porcelain only moments later, yet never to spill them from my stomach. When melodies scream from the horsehair on your bow the tears are almost immediate. My hands shake and the sounds and feelings roar and pulse so strongly in my mind, everything but you is television static.

I can't ever tell if this is love, or torture. It only hurts this much because I can't have you, I'm sure. I feel like I'm caught in a riptide, the swirling sand choking my lungs, and breaking my toes. But I'll let it have me. I'll let the sea push me out beyond sight, and I'll sink further beneath, straight through the cracks in the ocean floor and to the **** core of the earth.

Every intention I ever had for you was to make you happy. I doubt that that has changed even now. But when loves gets twisted with jealousy, you can't possibly fathom how sorry I am for you to know me, or have known me. I know when I speak, if you listened close enough, with your lips parted, you would be able to taste the malice and venom in my voice that clouds my spoken thoughts, and arrests my ability to tell you that I could never hurt you. Though more so than often, I wish that you understood.

That things become so bottled up and compressed that it's not possible for me to even see straight, given the jagged red lines in my skin. Why do I feel like you're trying your hardest to cut me out of your life. To erase every memory that we had ever ******* created. If you asked me what's happening, where my mind has been, I've noticed.