Or Maybe Be

If It's Okay With You, I Miss You

Sometimes I wonder if I'm allowed to miss you.

We had cut things off so suddenly that I overthink about whether or not I should or shouldn't miss you, or if it's even necessary to.

We had agreed to a temporary type of love, and knew things would end eventually, but I still look up at the clouds and wonder if maybe you're looking up at them too, hoping that they remind you of me—how we lay there under a blanket of blue and white, staring into each others eyes as if they were the world.

I still freeze at the memory of how you looked at me and think, maybe this wasn't meant to be cut short—maybe you fell in love with me the way I fell in love with you. Maybe you ache the way I ache when I remember the taste of your lips. Because your mouth said one thing, but your eyes, your lips, your smile and your touch said another, and maybe I'm crazy enough to think that maybe you wonder if it's okay to miss me too.