When the thought of missing you hurts worse than being stricken in bed with your hands behind your back and a stomach full of an anxious history, filled with a marked up calendar of therapy dates,
that is when I will miss you the most.
The thought of missing you is pumping heavy venom into my heart.
Thinking of you like this, with an empty mind, prompts me to think of what it will be like, two years from now
when I am still stuck laying in that same
grieving
position.
I cannot move without you,
and I cannot bear to imagine my days and my darks without you holding my hand and guiding my blind ways.
Because what am I without the love of my life?
And exactly how many miles apart are our fingertips before they can touch?
When I roll over in the dead of night,
I expect to find your naked body to hold,
but all I discover grasping is another layer of bed sheet.
I miss you with a vengeance.
I miss you so bad, all I can taste is blood in my food.
And you are not even gone yet.