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