i don’t miss you on a Wednesday,
when i call into work sick and tired
and i can’t get up to put on the kettle.
if i faint now, who will find me?
so, i don’t miss being loved, hardly,
always when it’s stiff and inconsistent.
rushing through me, to better plans,
past the feelings i had to hide tightly.
i don’t miss the nights you rubbed my back,
and i could rest in your dependancy,
instead of reeling out what i never have.
i don't miss you at all these days,
despite my awkward tendencies to write like i do,
but once in a while i wonder what love felt like,
sometimes i think he wonders too.