I'll miss him when he leaves me. I miss him while he's here. I will miss the stubble scratches on my face, from his beard.
I will miss making him coffee. I'll miss making him tea. I'll miss the way he never really wanted anything to drink.
I shall miss the subtle differences of my life before and after. Forgive me for how much I know that I much prefer the latter.
Inside jokes and root beer floats made in the middle of the night. Movie marathons and sketches drawn of me from my best side.
Oh, I'll miss his scent.. I'll miss his ever tender touch. I'll miss the way he'd tease and flirt with me just to see me blush.
I'll miss the way he calls me "Doll." I'll be nameless. I'll have anguish. I'll miss how he partook in every single damn love language.
I will miss the way his voice croaked gently greeting me in the morning. The sleepy daze of just saying "Hey." And knowing he adored me.
I will miss his double entendres, his wicked wit, and the slips of his tongue. I'll miss my formless silhouette from the way that his clothes hung.
I say this from the way that everybody tends to leave. By accident. Or by design. Or on purpose; they all do. Eventually.
And I'm left scrambling for the remnants of their ghosts. Wanting to be haunted by those who almost stayed. Almost.
I will miss him in a way that will invoke a forced rebirth. I will miss him in a way that will definitely hurt.
And when he leaves me, whenever that may be, nevertheless. I hope that he misses the one that he left.
I pray, I plead, I beg, I wish... Oh, how I hope. I hope.
I will miss him when he leaves me... but I hope he doesn't go.