I miss you like a war veteran misses his limb, torn off and roughly patched, before the rescue team could arrive, or before he could even rise from unconsciousness. And now, he feels the phantom pain of loss every fucking night and just wishes he had known that this would be his fate. He wishes he had known so that he could have avoided the war altogether, not for a lack of patriotism but for the love for self. I wish I had known, so that I could have stopped before I fell for you.
I miss you like a the little girl who lost her teddy in the earthquake. She knows it’s around her, stuck underneath a huge block of concrete. She’s too afraid too explore alone, and no one helps her, least of all the teddy. Not a sign, no shout for help. It just sits there in the debris watching her eyes well up. Everyone thinks I cry because I’m weak but they don’t know how bloody strong the ones who lose are.
I miss you like a traveller misses the extra water she forgot to carry. With parched lips and cracked skin on her hands; each drop reminding her of how she wouldn’t live if she didn’t drink it, then again she would not live if she did. It’s like living with a rationed supply of what’s absolutely necessary. I had a finite supply of you, and the more I consumed the better I lived, the lesser we loved.
I miss you like an author misses ink when he’s finally got the idea that he’d been waiting for for months. The thoughts come pouring out of his mind with no where to assemble them, so he memorises them, word by word, paragraph by paragraph, repeating it to himself while searching for his quill and ink pot. I memorised your movements, your face, the lines around your lips when you smiled, the touch of your hand and the warmth from your body, but I can’t find the ink, I just, for the love of God, can’t.
And I’m afraid I’ll forget, and that with time you will become a vague memory of something that caused me pain, like a nagging in-grown nail that one learns to live with. We should not be this banal.
We were meant for greatness, like the war the veteran fought. We were meant to grow up together, like the child and her teddy. We were meant to be the thing of novels and fairy tales. We were, I swear.