I miss you, love.
Even with all the
Rediculous contradictions.
The misspellings and things we tell ourselves.
Not lies, but maybe closer to stories—

I try to be cute and clever,
Distracting from the fact
That it was given up on.
Confusing thought with expectation,
At what age do you assume you know?

I yearn very hard to be more
Than myself; a trait that’s honestly
So ******* tiring. But
My father, at this age,
Told himself he was in love.

I am maybe three when he
Pulled my mother across the room,
By her hair,
They stayed together for 25 years.
And still even now when

I look at him, not thinking
Of those times and feeling,
With all sincerity, Love
For him.
He is himself.

I hurt you in different ways.
And hurt myself even more.
And so tired, tired of
Spacing each line in some special
Way to say some special feeling.

I want to just feel
With true sincerity the things
That need telling.
No metaphor, or simile,
I miss you imperfectly missing.