I miss you

There, I said it.

I miss you like I miss being a child. So innocently and so tenderly.
I miss you like I miss crying in my bed every night. So harshly and so hatefully.
I miss you like I miss how watermelon tasted sitting on my back porch in the dead heat of the summer. So wistfully and so nostalgically.
I miss you like I miss hating myself. So forcefully and so violently.
I miss you like I miss playing with my dad in that small backyard with the garden and playhouse. So kindly and so gently.

I miss you.

There, I said it.

And I'll miss you for even longer than just now.
I'll miss the small speckles of kisses we left on the other's shoulders and chests and chins.
I'll miss the sharpness of the shadows cast on the wall by the T.V. at 10 o' clock at night when we're supposed to be anywhere but laying in each other's arms.
I'll miss how the vast city lights stretched out for miles and miles and miles, unphased by the chill of winter.
I'll miss the sound of your voice, the terribly velvet voice with the touch of agony.

I miss you.

There, I said it.

And it is such a lonely existence to miss someone who does not miss you back.