If I told him how much
I actually truly miss him he
wouldn't believe me.
I could message him and pour my
heart out all over his arms,
and he wouldn't believe me.
If I told him I miss the smell of
his room,
watching his meticulous, yet ***** hands work.
All of the answers and the knowledge
that he contained in that absolutely
beautiful misunderstood brain.
He wouldn't believe me,
because he believes that I discarded him
like a cigarette **** out of my window.
Hell, he may not believe me,
even if I mailed every poem I've ever
written about him to his address.
It would be a book by now.
He doesn't know how much I miss
the friend that cared for me when nobody else did.

I have never missed anybody for this amount of time.
But he was never just anybody to me,
he became everything.