It is a most obvious thing to admit that we do not miss things when they are there; when they are easily accessible, can easily be remembered, can easily be reached and touched and held and read and valued – we do not miss them, we do not even give ourselves the room to believe, in that moment, that we could miss them for we do not believe, in that moment, that they could not be there.
We, human beings, all of us, are fools, for we are constantly in the act of tricking ourselves. We believe things permanent; we believe our lives, in isolation, unchanging and immutable. We believe things we ought not believe, and I am not unlike any other fool.
I miss you.
I miss saying good morning to you, for this told me it was time to rise, and then saying good night, for it spoke that it was time for me to take my rest. (You were the bookends of my day, solid and sure)
I miss the way you would touch the back of my neck, as if to whisper, “you’re mine”. (I did not mind the possession)
I miss how you would clutch, pull my hair, to tell me of your pleasure; to tell me of your need. (Words become insufficient to tell of what I felt)
I miss the wonder you could draw out of me, the child you reawakened from a long sleep. (My city through your eyes was made new)
I miss you.
I suppose those are the only three words that matter: I miss you. I miss you because as the cliché reminds us, absence has made this heart fonder. The distance from me to you, as small as the tap-tap of fingers on a screen or as wide as the roar of aeroplane engines, has removed from my eyes all the irritations and the aggravations of the day by day stevedoring that constant companionship requires. If you were to ask me, then, I could list them with the flourish of a put-upon pack animal – every minute load a mountain, every minute question an imposition.
But now, if you were to ask me, I could probably find perhaps one or two that would give me pause, if that much. This heart has grown rather fond; this mind gone soft-focus when it looks towards you.
Still, despite all of that, I am not a revisionist historian nor am yet completely addled. I remain more than capable of telling fact from fiction, ink from pencil and leaden-smudged paper that shows the hesitations and rewrites and regrets and failures. These things ended as they ought do; my needs were not yours; your wants not mine; our story now merely a ghost ship not ever expected to return to shore.
For missing, as you also know, comes with this silken, Serpentine thought of reclamation. It is the thought that if you search hard enough, lifting blankets and moving furniture, shining lights in dark places and running hands in those diminished spaces, you will find that which you most desire. You will be reunited with a lost memento, a favorite ring, a photo, an object that will stop the missing, will stop the yearning, will stop stop stop it in its tracks, and then your world will once again be stable, sure, permanent, only to be lived in the present.
But some things are lost forever.
I need not miss you any longer.