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?