I Miss…

I miss the way your hand fit against mine

I miss the warm hood of your car against my back as we stared up at the stars

I miss the way it felt when you looked at me

like sunlight had pooled in my chest

and rivers were beginning to run from my heart to my toes

I miss the way you laughed when I danced like a crazy person

and the moments when you joined me

I miss you and I miss me

I miss us

Not the way we ended, but the way we began

with long nights laced with soft words and quiet laughter

because our not so crazy family members were asleep

when we were wide awake, our affection our caffeine.

I miss the way your voice sounded

ringing out across the cold-de-sac

or bouncing between trees as we explored God’s creation.

Sometimes I don’t miss us,

but the way things were.

I miss the laughter that lived in my skin

I miss the way I believed in magic

I miss the magic I found when I was with you

I miss hours spent writing letters and the excitement,

the hummingbird wings grazing my ribs,

when you greeted me with a warm embrace and folded up paper

riddled with the chaotic scrawl of a boy on fire

Because once a fire lived in your bones and it shone

so brightly that sometimes it was hard to look at you.

I miss the white fire that danced under my skin

that burned up my spine and around my heart

and when our fires met we were unstoppable.

I miss when I woke up with eyes begging to close

not because they were worn from tears

but because they had not rested more than an hour –

there was so much to see that I never wanted to close them.

I miss trusting

I miss having someone I could put my trust in

someone I believed in the way I had never believed in a someone before.

I miss knowing

Knowing that everything would be okay

That life has purpose, has a meaning

That hidden among all my dirt was a jewel

and that you saw it

I miss closing my eyes at night

with praise on my lips

instead of doubt.

I miss the way it felt to know that even when my house was crumbling

my home was not a building with four walls

My home was two arms that were always there

to take me in and keep me warm

when the cold was seeping in and I felt that it would break me.

I miss believing that all of these things

would be mine

– be ours –

once more

if only I prayed, if only I trusted if only I fought.

But the fight and the trust, sometimes even the prayer

are gone

and I am left with an unending list of what

I miss