I told you that I missed you as I grew nostalgic for things that were never mine in the first place.
Memories committing verbicide, bringing to mind your voice singing love songs in the moonglow, and censoring the ugliness of those words you really said.
I told you I missed you because the words were festering in my brain and filling my lungs with air too heavy to breathe.
I told you that I missed you because I've finally figured out that all of your little injustices, all of those things I should've called treason, don't even begin to match the chasm you left in my world when you left.
You are missing from me and I am a ghost without you.
I told you all of it, déjà vu bitter on my tongue, and I blinked as the words floated off into the space between our lips.
Too little, too late, you said, *your love is only ashes.