Dear You,

I miss you.

I was fine. Even redefined every niche in my room, in my heart, in every crevice of my mind, into meanings that circle back to me… and not to you.

And I was successful. I have etched your face, your imprint in my bed, the slices of air your voice box made, everything of you, into a page somewhere in my diary and placed it in a shelf where I once held your heart, the one I gave it back to you.

But today, I miss you.

You were the last taste of summer before crimson painted the autumn sky.

You were the lingering scent of gardenias, carried by the night’s breeze, triggering memories of a man who inhaled my exhalations.

I miss your breath against the nape of my neck.

I miss your forearm between my breasts as you carefully pulled me in closer to you.

I miss the faint scent of you that you left in my pillows the morning after.

And somewhere, deep inside me, I wonder if you think of me. I wonder if a vision of me ever escapes your memory bank, clawing to the top, demanding to be seen. I wonder if you ever stop to wonder how I am doing. I wonder if you ever struggle with your hand who wants to pick up the phone or even pick up a pen to send a comforting word to me, as you did time and time again.

i will rest assure that there is still poetry out there that reminds you of me. that there are bass lines and high hats that remind you of me. that sand on brown cheeks still remind you of me. that every time the smell of hazelnut coffee and biscotti makes you smile in the memory of me... that maybe somewhere, in the area where your head slopes into your neck, you hear me saying your name in my head.

Or maybe it’s a good thing that you have moved on.

That way only one of us goes through this.

Today, I miss you.

and tomorrow, i promise myself it will be better.