I miss you like the moon misses the tide—
drawn toward you in quiet gravity,
yet left to glow alone in the hush
of a sky too wide, too still, too far.
I miss you like wind through a field of lilies,
brushing soft petals that don’t respond.
Like a ghost breeze sighing through curtains,
hoping you might return through the door.
You are the fog in my early mornings,
the warmth my coffee fails to mimic,
the soft indentation in my pillow
where your dreams used to rest beside mine.
I miss you in colors—
in the pale peach of sunset clouds,
in the silver hush of midnight rain,
in the gold that glimmers through memory’s lace.
I miss you in textures—
in velvet air after thunder,
in the silk of whispered goodnights,
in the ache behind every slow breath.
You echo in the spaces between stars,
your name hidden in stardust trails,
your touch a distant hum in my bones—
faint, but ever pulsing beneath my skin.
Even time seems to unravel without you—
hours stretch like candle wax down my spine,
and every clock tick is a heartbeat
that forgets how to beat right without yours.
I find you in the oddest places—
a song half-heard on a street corner,
the scent of rain on a stranger’s coat,
a poem I didn’t mean to write, but did.
I miss you in ways I don’t know how to explain—
with a love that doesn’t settle,
a yearning that spills past language,
a soul ache that dreams of you in petals and tidepools.
And still,
somehow,
I keep missing you more.