I miss you so much
that half my day is spent building the version of us
that finally gets it right.
The one where love is a gentle rhythm,
not a storm.
The one where my chest doesn’t ache
with what-ifs and rewinds.
But then we talk.
And it’s blame wrapped in every sentence,
defenses drawn like sharp edges,
as if even my I miss you
is a knife you think I’m twisting.
I say your name softly,
you hear it like an attack.
There’s no passage through the walls you keep stacking.
Every word I send
crashes against them,
falls heavy at my feet.
It feels like you’d rather fight me
than feel me,
as if anger costs less than love.
As if war is safer than the weight of admitting
that maybe, you still want me too.