I miss him like the moon misses the sun and I know he will still be there if I decide to go back

But I don’t want to miss him, I’m not the moon, and he’s not the sun.

I miss our conversations like an artist misses their paint brushes.

But I don’t want to miss our conversations, I’m not an artist and he’s not my paint brush.

I miss him when he was my person, but I’m not his and he can’t be mine again.