I don’t remember what it was like to be yours.
I don’t remember how you kissed or how you intertwined your hand with mine. I don’t remember how you held me.
I don’t remember any of that.
What I remember is how I felt. I remember the emotion. I remember loving you more than life itself.
Now remains the longing. It comes and goes, really. It’s that periodic feeling of missing something. I don’t miss you, exactly.
I miss looking over to the seat next to me and seeing a sweet face; eyes filled with adoration.
I miss going to bed knowing that I’m loved and waking up with the intent of speaking with the person whose smile makes even the brightest star seem dull.
I miss being treated like there’s no one in the world that’s loved more than I.
I miss all of the emotion, all of the commotion, all of the devotion.
I miss all of that.
I don’t miss you.