Missing you is the glowing orange tip of metal just removed from the fire. (Maybe if I wasn’t still so pissed, it would be a nice matte black.)
It smells like vanilla perfume or bialys hot from the oven or Indian spices in a warm kitchen on a cold winter day. (I never smell any of those things anymore.)
It tastes like catastrophe eggs and dark chocolate mousse (both of which I could make if I wanted, but I don’t).
Missing you sounds like the rapid click of your heels walking forever down the hallway outside a door I’m behind. (I know it’s you, but I don’t want you to know I know.)
It feels like you’re singing my favorite song, but all I can ever do is listen and not harmonize. (This makes total sense actually, since you never much cared for sharing the stage.)
It looks like resignation. I say “it was all for the best” and “sometimes, you have to leave behind those you love in order to love yourself.” (I am resigned. It is for the best. I did leave you behind and I do love myself.)
Missing you is amazing. It’s wonderful. It’s…I wake up every morning thankful for your rejection, for the ensuing few years of hell, and for the great things and people that have come into my life as a result.
Thanks for leaving me so I could go.