The way I miss thee seems to be unique;
'Tis not the way a teenage girl pines;
'Tis not the way computer lovers meet;
And neither is it how my mother lies.
My hand, alone, knows not to want another,
though loneliness will tend to grow it cold;
My lips, so soft, to taste those of thy brother
would rather rot until ten million old.
I can't forget the scent of thee, it's gone,
though stored away behind turned lock and key
and mixed with words that breath have I grown fond;
And use to fall in love with memory
the way I miss thee comes from love, so deep,
Not vain, nor false, but strong enough to weep.