The Things I Miss About You

I miss you like a half-spoken prayer lost in rain and restless nights

The things I miss about you
Stretch longer than a night without sleep.
Since you left,
There’s been an ache I can’t name.
You took a part of me
The part that used to feel whole.
Now I walk around like a sentence missing its final word.

I miss your voice.
That strange melody of home and someplace else.
You speak,
And it’s like hearing my favorite song in a language I don’t know,
But feel in my bones.
You calm the noise inside me with nothing but sound.
You ask why I love you this much?
You’re the Y in my broken math
The question and the answer all at once.
Even the thought of you
Is light splitting through a grey sky.

But what I miss more
Is how you made my body forget itself.
You touched me
And I sparked like stripped wire,
Hot, raw, unready.
Your skin was a soft ambush.
Your lips,
A kind of trouble I wanted again and again.
And your hips
A pull I couldn’t resist,
Orbiting something dangerous and sweet.
You didn’t just turn me on,
You rerouted the current.

Now it rains.
And the sky remembers what I won’t say.
I’m wrapped in a blanket
that doesn’t hold me right.
You’re not in it,
and that changes everything.
There’s a cold
only your warmth ever solved.
I dream of your body,
Wet like a summer storm,
Moving against mine like it was built to fit the ache.

I miss you in fragments,
Too jagged for neat sentences.
So I write what I can,
In the cracks between memory and hunger.
Just know someone here is still drowning in you,
Still spinning in the orbit you left behind.