I Miss You

When I say “I miss you”, I don’t mean that I would love to have a laugh sometime soon because it’s been too long.

I mean that my eyes miss looking into your eyes- hazel and blue, bespectacled meeting made-up, homely clashing with beautiful.

I mean that I miss your dimples and the shape of your nose and how your hair falls on your shoulders.

I mean that I miss how your eye shadow always matches your clothes, and how you always look so lovely that it’s hard to keep my hands off of you.

I mean that my hands miss your hands, and your knees, and your waist, and your back- your tiny hands, your knobby knees, your rectangular waist, and your J-curve back.

I mean that my ears miss your voice and your laugh and your singing. They miss how you say my name, how you call me “sweetie” (and you’re the only one who can), and how the pitch rises and falls as you tell a story. They miss hearing that little yelp you make when I playfully pinch your ass, or when you get excited when you dance.

I mean that my body misses yours- misses you sitting in my lap, misses your arms around my neck, misses the shoulder-to-knee contact of the inevitable tackling hugs that start every hang-out. It misses dancing with you, sitting next to you, being near you, just existing.

And it misses wanting you. My lips miss wanting to kiss yours. My hands miss wanting to hold yours. My arms miss wanting to wrap around you.

My voice misses wanting to shout “SHE IS MINE”.

Because my body loves yours- wants you in my lap, wants your arms around my neck, wants the electrifying contact that comes with our hugs. It craves dancing with you, sitting next to you, and being near you, loving you by osmosis.

And my ears should be the ears who are graced with your voice and your laugh and your singing every day. I mean that they love how you say my name, how you call me “baby” (and you’re the only one for whom that turns me on), and how when you come to a part in a story you love, you lower your voice. And when that little yelp comes out of your mouth when my hands find your back pockets, my ears could weep for joy.

I mean that I want to be the lucky one whose hands know your hands, and your knees, and your waist and your back- your beautiful hands, your lovely knees, your sexy waist, and your flawless back.

I mean that I want to be the one you ask if you look hot today, if everything matches okay, because I’m the one you’re looking gorgeous for.

I mean that I want to be the reason your dimples come out to play, I want to be the one whose nose has bumped against yours, I want to be the one who brushes your hair out of your eyes and off your shoulder.

I mean that when my hazel eyes meet your blue eyes, I don’t want you to be reminded of his brown eyes.

So when I say “I miss you”, that’s not what I mean. What I mean is that I don’t want to miss anything.