I miss you. But you are not here. I cannot talk to you, I don't trust myself. I wish you would look at this. I wish you'd read these stupid poems about you, and understand what this hell is like for me. Because I don't think you do understand. And I have a feeling you have moved on to whoever or whatever, but I haven't. Mother washed that white jacket that smelled like you, the last thing that did. When I breathed it in I cried, because it didn't smell like I was walking into your house. I miss you. I miss being intimate with you. I miss that look in your eyes, that tentative intensity. I just want to look at you and see it one last time. Kiss your lips one last time.