on what is now
i guess
a sunday,

i miss you. truly. painfully.
i wonder if you miss me
or if chicago has birthed
enough girls
to keep you
entertained
or maybe
interested

maybe
what i miss
has been dead
for quite.
some.
time.

about a year.
and a half. maybe
more?

and still,
through drawn-out-
annoyingly-long days,
which feel empty
without your presence

i miss you;
your shedding brown
on my shower walls,
twisted in the brushes,
static to my white sheets.

warmth
god that warmth.
i'm telling you
it's hard
to come by.

and jesus christ
your eyes;
so green,
and grey,
and blue,
like two planets i studied
through a telescope
that i never figured out
how to read.

i miss your like-hands
on my shoulder blades at night,
their grip on the
(to me)
terrifying
ground-shifting
bus ride
in the mornings.

and

i don't remember
your kiss,
but i bet anything
i miss that too.