“Miss”
It is true: I will miss you.
I will miss the little thrill
you give. It will be so quiet
in here. I won’t have
to ruminate or regret,
or tantalize myself with
possibilities so wild and delightful
they spoil my appetite.
I will try to hold onto
the way you flatten your
vowels, pronounce the word
“affection,” but I will forget.
That is what happens in
cases like these.
Our brains were not
made to hold such things
indefinitely; my memory
will betray me, and
before long,
you will be
misplaced.
I will miss the sickness
I got from loving you,
and the brilliant momentary
certainty I held in knowing
it was my duty to love you,
a duty I was born to
and because you will not
let me keep it, I will
miss it instead.
I will miss you
like I’d miss hunger if
I were endlessly filled.
I will miss the absence
at my side, the space
I carved out for you,
where I placed the idol of my
duty when I found that you,
yourself, were all I lacked.
I will miss the search for you,
and I will miss coming up
empty-handed every time.
My grief will seem pointless
like a coffin is pointless,
like a dress you wear just once,
for the sake of an appearance
that masks only
an absence.
I will miss you, who
were never mine
to miss.
March 22, 2006
