Sometimes I make myself angry at you.
Hurt
That you aren't around.
Not because I enjoy being angry and hurt,
Not because you deserve it,
Not because anything at all has gone wrong,
But simply because
Missing you as much as I miss you on some nights
[most nights]
Has no reason,
No cause,
No cure,
No trigger or relief.
And if I'm going to feel it
My mind wants something to blame.
It is too much,
Too much love,
To simply miss you
And feel the exquisitely fragmenting pain of that.
It is much easier to handle feeling something I've felt before,
Something that can be fought,
Something that can be dealt with,
Something that has a start,
And hence,
An end.
My hurt, my anger...all of it...
Even my fear is a lie.
Because the truth is
Missing you
Has no end,
No edge,
No closure,
No border.
No creation
And no ultimatum.
If I bog myself down in petty fear and pain and enmity
If I fog up my mind and heart with those silly distractions
The love
Cannot leak through and terrify me
With its immeasurable, ceaseless enormity.
If I just stay on the surface,
I can't drown in what is really happening:
My love deepens by the second,
And I am at sea
With no land in sight.
I miss you with my skin and the marrow of my bones,
With my fingertips and in my veins.

I miss you more every moment.

It's been increasing since the day you left.
When you came back,
It only picked up.
I miss you in a way that absolutely stuns me with fear
And with awe.

I am not ready to be the vessel for that kind of feeling
That kind of love.

And so sometimes, when you're not around and I wish you were,
I make myself angry with you,
Hurt,
Afraid to lose you.
I engineer insecurities in my head.
Because the sheer truth of knowing that you love me
And missing you this much anyway
Is too immense
And too agonizing
To face.