Today I miss him.

How can I miss someone who’s hair I’ve never run my hands through?

I imagine the silkiness of his voice whispering my name,

his breath tickling my ear as he tries to seduce me out of reality.

His eyes I’ve dreamed a thousand times, but to have them staring

deeply, openly, unwavering into my own would be the smallest of miracles.

Time continues to run on and on and on like a run on sentence

filled with anxiety and imperfection and the possibility of beauty

and an ending. Period. Would it be too much to ask for closure

in the way that I’ve continued to hope for, in which, we commit ourselves

to the words we speak and the promises we make and the lies we tell each other

in the dead of night?



Author: Brittney

A girl who lives in books, loves in songs, wallows in self-doubt, demands equality, and consumes copious amounts of coffee, while fighting the patriarchy.

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