She

does not know

how empty I am,

without her.

My forced absence

drains me.

I miss her skin,

her hair,

her laugh,

her strong legs,

her screams,

her whiskey and mint breath,

her fingers on my chest,

her smelly ******* dog,

her cluttered kitchen,

her horrible wall sconces,

and her muscles flexing underneath me.

I miss the way we fit

so well together

in her small bed.

I miss the nervous

anxious feeling I

would get on the way over

to see her.

I think of the quiet moments we

would have after

making love, when she would twirl her hair,

and give me a new

perspective.

She was unhealthy for me,

I knew that going in.

That doesn’t change

or heal

or fix

or fill

my emptiness.