Fuck it, I miss you!

At midnight, I lie awake wondering about how things might have been if we had been together; if you had recognised what I had discovered. I haven’t been sleeping much lately since I’ve been wishing you felt the same way I do. Yes, I do. The present tense is used. That would have been something to write home about; we might have been the pair everyone envied.

But all I have is a list of things I wish I could tell you on my phone. All I have is wishful thinking that transports me back to February, when I was on the verge of giving birth to you. That’s probably all we’ll ever have: nearly.

I miss you, and I’d want to tell you how ecstatic I was when I found out you received the message I sent for you a week before Valentine’s Day. I’d like you to know that amusing gestures aren’t uncommon, and I have many of them. They may have shown up unexpectedly, but I know you once liked them.

I miss you, and I’d like you to witness how my once-colorless existence began to take on new life. Every time I glanced at you, everything else faded into the background; every shocked expression in the room was irrelevant since I was just staring at you.

I miss you, and I want you to know that when I first held you in my arms, I felt courageous, alive, manifested, present, and new. I wanted to keep you secure and sheltered from the anguish you had previously experienced. I witnessed how my reality collided with yours, and I realised things I had never realised before. But, like eclipses, it only lasted a brief while; you slipped from my grasp, and I was left scanning the room for an open seat.

But for the little moment that your shadow engulfed me, that you crushed your body against mine, you painted me a blue sky, one I hadn’t seen in a long time. You rewrote the rules, and I watched as they all vanished in an unexpected turn of events.

I suppose we’ll always be that way: nearly.

I miss you, and I’d like you to know that I still miss you after all these years. I’m embarrassed that I wrote this ode for you. Maybe it’s just me and my naiveté, but I’m willing to take a risk. You must think I’m creepy or hopeless, and you’re probably right. But I’m willing to wager that no one has ever written you a poem, a piece, or a love song like I did. Nobody could, at least not in the manner that I could.

I’m sorry, but I miss you and wish you felt the same way. I’m curious whether it’s killing you the same way it’s hurting me now that we’re not talking.

I miss you, but I’m not going to disturb you with my feelings. I know you’re with someone now, and I’m not the type of guy who would attempt to ruin the happiness you deserve. I’ll be OK. I’m going to be OK. But, for the time being, fuck it. Even if you don’t want me to, I miss you.

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Desai Thoughts MEdia.

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